Cracks in the Pavement
by VampiresHaveLaws
Summary: Life is never perfect, the cracks always appear. "My Polaroid would show the face of a girl who has forgotten how to truly smile." Even the strongest of dreams can fail to become enough.
1. My Favourite Game

**Hey everyone! I've had this idea for a while now and felt ready to start posting. ****Hope you all enjoy. :)**

**Massive thanks to my amazing beta Susan for being wonderful. And thanks to the lovely jedigirlsc for prereading. I'm so lucky to have them both.**

**The super talented time_lights made me the most perfect banner to go along with this story. You can check it out on my profile.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

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Bella

I bring a hand up to my cheek, attempting to cool my face with the temporary coldness of my palm—a fleeting chill left over from the glass of wine I have been nursing for the past few minutes.

The room is too hot—stifling. The open fire, with its dominating mantle and chimney breast above, shifts out heat in an overwhelming abundance—the deep red of the paint on the walls only make it seem that much warmer.

The flames lick at the logs in the grate, bringing about a chorus of crackling that distracts me from the voices around me. I watch as the outer edges curl and ignite, releasing a flurry of sparks in that captivating golden yellow that just as quickly fades to nothing.

My eyes eventually drift, finding the favoured colours of Christmas: greens, golds and more red. There is a precisely decorated tree in the corner of the room; again, its size is dominating. It speaks of cheerfulness. It speaks of admiring gazes. It speaks of a false sense of comfort.

Every bauble and glittering star that hangs from the evergreen catches the light, irritating my pupils like the flash of a camera.

My Polaroid would show the face of a girl who has forgotten how to truly smile.

As I stand and ignore the condensation that trickles down the outside of my glass to my fingers, I can't help thinking that the colours—the decorations—are all wrong. White, blue and silver would be more appropriate. My skin may be flushed, but inside... inside I'm cold.

The faces and voices around me hold that excitement this time of year seems to bring. It could be the overindulgence in spirits; a look from an ex-partner you haven't seen in years; endless parties or the showing off of a new svelte figure. The reasons don't necessarily matter—it's all still here.

Children belonging to nameless mothers are huddled beneath a table, their faces partially hidden by the once-pristine tablecloth that is now stained with expanding droplets of merlot. Their hands cover their mouths to stifle their giggles and I envy that they're able to find amusement here. A part of me wants to rewind back to that age where everything is so much easier.

I want that light-heartedness back.

This brings my thoughts to the man I came here with; the same man whose smiles used to be able to instigate my own. I spot him easily, his frame so familiar to me—more so than my _own_ image lately with the amount of time I've spent staring... spent _thinking._

I notice I'm not the only one who is admiring him, but then again, if I were in their position, I'd be doing the exact same thing.

I watch from across the room as he smiles to someone who isn't me. It's crooked and genuine and has the desired effect, as the girl... no..._ woman_ touches his arm with red painted nails and a soft upturn of lips the same colour.

I take a sip from my glass, the wine cool and crisp on my tongue. If he notices me staring, he makes no move to acknowledge it.

It doesn't surprise me that he pretends I'm not here.

We've known each other for so long, I sometimes forget that hasn't always been the case. It feels like he's always been in my life, long before he'd spoken those first words to me all those years ago.

I can list off his favourite foods; his favourite sounds and sights without hesitation. At least I used to think I could—now I'm not as sure. Things are different now. He's different... I'm different. _We're_ different.

Someone else joins them, a man in a pale blue shirt. More easy smiles are given, and this time, I want to scream. Of course, I don't. Everything is locked up inside with heavy bars and stubborn keyholes that refuse to be cracked open in front of these people.

We're at his parents' house—no doubt one of many visits we'll have to make this Christmas at any given notice. Family members I've seen numerous times before are gathered in the large room, all laughing and eating. I stay on the sidelines, not wanting to get dragged into a conversation by an aunt who feels sorry for me. I feel like I don't fit in here, not any more. Perhaps I never did.

Lately, it feels as if Edward agrees. He left me as soon as we arrived, the polite hand at my back gone as he spotted his brother and new fiancée across the room.

He didn't take me with him.

The fiancée looked like she belonged here. The small diamond earrings in her ears sparkled as she turned to kiss both cheeks of my other half like they were old friends... _new_ friends. Either way, Rosalie Hale—soon to be Cullen—was welcomed.

I drag myself away from that line of thought and once again focus my attention on the present.

He's now with a friend Rosalie brought along. I don't know her name, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he'd rather talk to her, than me. His wife.

I met Edward in school when we were fifteen. My family had moved to Forks, Washington from Chicago for a change of pace. Or at least that's what I told his mother on my first visit to _this_ house. I didn't tell her the real truth, being that I was sure my parents were having marital problems. Charlie had thought a fresh start would do us all good. Renee hadn't been as sure, but she'd gone along with it. And considering my parents were still together, I guess it'd worked.

I'd heard rumours, of course. On that very first day of school, I was regaled with all the facts concerning the Cullen family.

_Old money. Father is a doctor. Mother has the brightest smile. Big house on the outskirts of town. Emmett. Alice. Edward. Funny. Driven. Beautiful._

They hadn't noticed me like the other students: like Eric with his nervous babbling or Jessica with her highlighted blonde hair. But then I'd been seated next to Edward, _beautiful,_ in English. I'd been too shy, too quiet. He'd been too indifferent, too obvious.

He'd soon changed my whole world.

We married at nineteen without telling anyone. We were young and naïve—stupid. But I was in love... so, _so_ in love. My chest had been full with adoration and impatience to start something that perhaps we weren't ready for. And now, six years later, I _know_ we weren't.

I now feel different emotions from those that had left me starry eyed.

His parents had been so angry, reiterating that he'd thrown his life away; my own had been more disappointed. My mother had sat me down on my twin bed and stroked my hair as she told me she'd wished I'd waited. She had married my father at the same age all those years ago, and while she repeated she loved us both, she felt she'd missed out on so much.

It was hard to hear her say those things at the time, and it still hurts if I think about it too much. But now it's for completely different reasons.

I finish the last of my wine and go in search of another. As I'm approaching the table that is laid out with foods that come in 'mini': quiches, tarts, seafood—and pastries covered in a variety of chocolate and flavoured creams—a voice I don't recognise stops me.

"Excuse me, do you know where the bathrooms are?" I'm startled—no one has talked with me in over an hour.

I look up into the face that belongs to the voice. His hair is fair and his eyes are light—grey, silvery. His skin is tanned—natural. It's obvious to see he's not from these parts.

I can feel another set of eyes on me, the familiar tingle across my skin letting me know _who_ those eyes belong to. I don't look back; I don't want to make it easy for him.

"Hello?" And now a hand is on _my_ arm, gentle, hesitant, drawing me out from my own thoughts.

"Sorry," I tell him with an apologetic smile. It says,_ see, Edward, I can smile too._

I clear my throat softly. "Right, bathrooms—there's one on the left-hand side from the door you came in through," and I point. "And there's another a little further down the hallway, again, on your left. Then there's the first floor..**.**"

I get cut off by a laugh.

"The first two sound just fine," he says with amusement dancing across his face. The man beside him nods in thanks, and I realise the person talking to me wasn't asking for himself.

I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment, which hasn't happened in a while—so long in fact the warmth panics me a little. I straighten my dress and look at my uncomfortable shoes instead.

"Sorry," I repeat again for the second time in the same amount of minutes. I should be used to conversing with faces I don't know. I work in an old book store that sells mostly second-hand books or new copies that aren't seen fit for the bigger chains. A page may be torn, the spine creased too much to look brand new. They still hold the same words; they just come in a less appealing package for someone looking for perfection.

"Are you a friend of the family?" he asks me, his hands moving to the pockets of his black suit trousers. His shirt is pressed—no crease in sight. I spotted two in Edward's as he exited the car.

A server walks past with his silver tray, this time filled with glasses of bubbling champagne. Before I can reach for my second drink of the night, one is handed to me by the nameless man still standing beside me.

"I guess you could call me that," I eventually answer while meeting his eyes. "Esme is my mother-in-law."

His brows meet for just a second before realisation begins to dawn. "You're Edward's wife?"

I finally look back and meet the green eyes that are still focused in my direction. His expression gives away nothing, but he wouldn't be staring if he didn't feel... _something_. His face is so handsome, masculine and beautiful, that if I hadn't known it for the past nine years, I would currently find it near impossible to tear my eyes away.

But I have and I do.

Instead my gaze drifts to the woman in red who has moved even closer to my husband's side. She can't be that much older than I am, but the jealousy I feel as I take in her closeness to the man who shares my bed every night, makes me feel like a child.

My words fall quietly from my mouth like whispered prayers in a church. "Yeah," I respond slowly. "That's me, Edward's wife."

There's a beat of awkward silence as we both stand and drink our champagne. Thankfully, he has the kindness to break it.

"I'm Jasper Hale," he says with an outstretched arm and open palm. As I take a closer look at his face, it suddenly seems familiar to me, but I can't place how.

I wonder why he has yet to leave and talk to another as I slip my hand into his. Perhaps he's simply too polite. "Isabella Cullen."

I'm so used to using my full name in this house, that I don't think twice about using it with him. But I immediately realise I don't want to, and quickly amend myself.

"Actually, just call me Bella. Isabella reminds me of being scolded as a child."

He laughs lightly and swirls the golden liquid around in his glass. His name finally registers with my brain and I now know where that familiarity has been coming from. "Hale... so you're related to Rosalie?"

"She's my sister," he responds with a smile, his eyes moving about the room, no doubt unconsciously trying to spot his sibling.

I'm wondering why I haven't seen him before now when he beats me to it and answers my unspoken question.

"I've been working in California for the past couple of years," that explains the tan, "but after I'd heard Rose had become engaged, I thought I'd better come see her soon-to-be-husband for myself," he grins, teeth white and perfect. "They seem well suited."

I don't disagree with him because I can't—he's right.

"Yeah, Emmett's a good guy." I don't add that he has a light-heartedness about him that the rest of the family seems to lack.

Edward used to have it... or maybe still does; just currently not with me.

He is no longer the boy who tries to make me laugh when he thinks I'm upset or out of sorts. Instead, I'm given long stares or ignored completely. And in return, I don't take his hand and lead him to our bed to share lips and hands and skin.

"How long are you staying?" I inquire, motioning to the table adorned with food for something to do other than simply stand here. He follows my lead and reaches for the same plate as I do.

"I'm not sure yet," he answers, chewing his mouthful of puff pastry. "Rose and Emmett have kindly offered to let me stay with them; so I suppose until they get sick of me I guess."

He laughs and gives me another smile and I quickly look away and grab a mini chocolate tart.

I always end up here, at one of the tables, picking at food I don't really want but looks too good to ignore; except usually I'm here alone, or with Esme as she tells me that I just _have_ to try the lemon dessert.

We talk some more and it's easy... _simple_. I don't feel as awkward as I did, which is both nice and slightly unnerving. He tells me about his work—he's an architect—and I listen attentively as he describes the places he's been and the jobs he's done; sunny states and the cobbled streets of Italy. I can see it all play out in my mind; imagine the light behind my eyelids and warmth on my skin. The images make me envious.

I see the same things day in, day out.

"What is it that you do, Bella?" he asks as he brushes his hand through his hair, the action so like Edward it makes me long to turn around and seek him out again... simply because I can.

"I work in a book store in Port Angeles," I reply, thinking of the building with its worn frames at the window—that is in serious need of a new coat of paint—and its friendly bell above the door that welcomes its visitors. I can sometimes get lonely working there, but I feel safe... at home with the unwanted items that line the shelves, waiting to be picked.

"So I take it you like to read?" he states, his eyes teasing. I chuckle and glance to the floor as I nod my head.

"I really do," I tell him as I see Carlisle approaching, his son in tow—just sadly not the one I want.

I don't say anything further, as I see no point, and set my glass aside with a deep breath.

"Jasper!" There is an enthusiastic voice and his hand becomes engulfed in my father-in-law's. Emmett comes to stand beside me and gently knocks his hip to mine.

"This party is so damn boring, huh?" he whispers, giving me that dimpled smile that the girls at school used to fall for time and time again. Everything about Em is infectious, and I don't even realise I'm smiling until I feel my own lips start to twitch.

"It's okay... the same," I answer, linking my hands against my stomach. He gives them a squeeze, making me feel better about present company.

Carlisle is talking about something I can't add to—I'd missed the start of the conversation. He's a good man and loves his family, but sometimes I can't help thinking he isn't that fond of _me_. He's never been anything but pleasant and polite, yet I continue to feel nervous around him... always on edge. I find myself questioning whether I'm good enough for his family; they have money, and well, mine don't. Charlie is a police chief of a small town and Renee works at the local florist a few days a week. While I never went without when growing up—there was always money for school trips and that book I wanted—we didn't have the means to splurge on expensive cars or new TVs.

The differences in our upbringings never bothered me once when Edward and I started dating as teens—I guess you don't really think about those things at such a young age.

The only thoughts in my head had been whether he'd wanted to kiss me as I did him, and how soon I could see him again.

And while I still think about whether he wants to kiss me when I catch his eyes darting to my mouth, it's now joined by a chorus of other things too; mostly why he doesn't seem to want to as of late, what I'd done to make him stop, and when he does, why he pulls away so soon.

Our communication has become lost, buried beneath sand or trapped in that bottle floating out to sea. The longer we leave things unsaid, the further it wanders out of our sight until we can no longer spot the early morning light bouncing off the glass as it drifts and drifts and drifts.

Carlisle suddenly meets my eye and smiles a polite smile that instantly makes me question its truth.

"Isabella, you look as lovely as always." He steps forward to press a light kiss to my face—I angle my head, offering my cheek, his touch fleeting before gone.

He is soon talking to Jasper once more; I am again forgotten. And for the first time tonight, I find I don't mind it.

I excuse myself quietly to Emmett, catching Jasper's eye to send him a small nod before I walk away, my shoes soundless against the pale carpet. I walk until I find the opposite side of the room. I walk away until I can no longer hear the laughter of the girl in red.

I purposefully search out Esme, needing her constant chatter to keep my mind busy, sitting dutifully when she pats the seat next to her. I listen to talks of planned vacations with a group of women who all look alike.

Maybe an hour passes before I manage to slip away, my head full of European cities.

I look around for something I'm not even sure of finding, but then Edward is standing beside me, keeping my gaze for much longer than he has any right to. The warmth of his hand burns through my dress, though he's barely touching my arm. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, giving me glimpses of skin beneath cotton. I turn and discover eyes on him once more; varying colours linger and burn. He is forever a spotlight in the dark.

I fight the urge to shift away from his circle.

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**I'd love to hear your thoughts. Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter. I'm hoping to keep a regular posting schedule. **

**However, I will keep Evading Edward as my first priority until it's finished.**

**Thanks so much for reading. **

**VHL xx**


	2. Loneliest Star

**Hey everyone! Thank you so, so much for all your alerts and reviews. And especially to those who shared their own stories with me.**

**Thanks to my lovely beta Susan who gave me new meaning to a certain word recently. She is the best and I love her.**

**And massive thanks to jedigirlsc for prereading and always helping me. She is a star.**

**Also, huge thanks to Ser and CordyQ45 for all their help on twitter the other day.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

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Bella

The hallway is lit by a singular lamp, highlighting nothing but stray shoes and once worn coats... _emptiness._ The soft glow hints to a warm ambience where there is nothing but coolness: an open window left ajar on a chilly day, light fabrics billowing at the glass.

My back is to the door, the wood hard and cold beneath my palms. I sweep my fingertips from side to side in a slow dance with eyes now closed, immersing everything into shadow.

I breathe slow and deep... searching for _calm_ as I listen to the movement overhead and compose myself. I'm hiding, waiting for _him_ to climb beneath the sheets and fake sleep before I do the same; in sync in our falsities.

The car ride home had been silent despite the fact I wanted to ask and pry and whisper:

_Who was the woman in red?_

_What did you talk about? _

_Did you find her more attractive than me?_

Instead, I kept my face to the window and watched as the darkness blurred, occasional intermissions of vivid light blinding as cars passed and streetlamps burned.

The noise stops and I know it's my cue. My shoes join his on the floor, side by side. I hang my coat on the adjacent hook on the wall, sleeves touching; our inconsequentials closer than we are lately.

I go to lean forward, press my nose to the fabric to be near even _a_ _part_ of him, but I pause, knowing that the action will just bring about more despair.

It will make me want and need things I can't have right now.

I back away and sigh as my feet hit the first step, then another, until I'm facing the door to _our_ bedroom that no longer feels like _us_. No laughter. No entangled legs and twisted sheets; no breathy moans and desperate touches. No sleeping wrapped around each other—nothing.

I push my way inside, finding Edward shirtless with his back to me. The light in the room gives his pale skin an ethereal quality; moonlight in a sky full of slate grey. I want to reach out and run tentative fingers across his shoulders and down his spine... press my lips to him... have him hold me with arms that used to make me feel so safe and _his_ _alone_.

I've been so lost in my own head, I don't realise he's facing me until I look up and meet his expression that appears to be tinged with indifference.

_Does he no longer see someone he wants when he looks at me?_

His hands go to the button of his trousers, my gaze drawn to his fingers as I hear the sound of a zipper.

"Did you have fun tonight?"

Startled, I look up once more and find his eyes focusing on removing the last bit of his clothing; until he's standing before me in nothing but his underwear.

I twist the handle, finally closing the door as I will myself to move.

"Did _you_?" I say instead, dodging his question.

I remove my earrings and lay them atop the dresser, surprised when he continues with his previous inquiry. He usually just leaves it as that.

"I see you met Jasper?" he voices, his tone even.

I meet his eyes in the mirror, his green to my brown. The fact that he must have already met Rosalie's brother without telling me, doesn't escape my notice.

"I didn't realise you two knew each other," I accuse, playing with the heart shaped locket that hangs from the silver chain around my neck; a gift from Edward on my seventeenth birthday.

His eyes don't leave mine. "I met him last week at lunch."

Scenarios flood through my mind, the levels rising and rising until I'm sure I'll choke. "Lunch?" I manage to get out.

"Yes, lunch, with my family," he says simply. It's _so_ easy for him.

I swallow down the pain that abruptly blooms in my chest, opening like that first bud in spring.

_Am I not his family, too?_

I don't say anything... _can't_ say anything. He is silent also, staring back at me without trouble, almost as if he's waiting for something.

_Anger. Tears. Fisted hands to his chest, sharing my hurt._

He won't see any of them.

My gaze droops, losing its battle, wilting under the burn of his eyes. Then the bustle of sheets fills my ears, whispering words neither of us has said. And I know the discussion is over.

The bathroom light is blinding as I walk inside and ignore my reflection, turning to run the faucet. The water is warm as I cup my hands and bring them up to my face, washing away the night's fallacies—the rose from my cheeks that isn't from merriment, but crushed pink powder, like petals left out in the sun to dry before they crumble. By the time I re-emerge back into the bedroom, the scene is already set: Edward is lying on his side, this time facing me. It can differ depending on the night.

Sometimes it's easier when he faces the other way, that way I don't have to lie beside a constant reminder of what is so close… _mine_, but also so far away.

I slip into my pyjamas, the cotton cool on my skin, resulting in shivers to my spine. My body slides beneath the covers and I'm careful to keep to _my_ side, invisible battle lines drawn down the middle in just as invisible black ink. It was never said out loud; it simply happened over time, the distance growing further apart, stretching like an elastic band that I keep willing to snap, but never does. It holds strong and fast and I hate it. I could be the one to cut it, but I'm afraid of the backlash when it has to come back my way. The sting may be too much for me to bear.

I've forgotten to switch off the bathroom light; the singular ray of muted citron that slices through the darkness lights the features of Edward's face, highlighting dark lashes resting on high cheekbones.

I want to reach over and place my palm to his cheek; I want to curl to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

I want that sound to lull me to sleep instead of the anguish pulsing through me like an angry drumbeat. Again and again and again.

And even though I still love him, I also want to be happy, and smile. And in return, I want to be all he wants.

It all went wrong; it wasn't supposed to be like this. Every morning I wake, I expect to hear a set of words from him that will crush me, bring me to my knees: _I'm not in love._

And as I hand him his cup of coffee—the brush of his fingers against mine my favourite part of the day—I listen for them, sometimes even imagine them.

I never once will them to come true.

Our arguments became worse, more heated—words ignited, the flames achieving great heights.

But now everything is the exact opposite. The match won't catch, and the passion on my side is hidden. And on _his:_ unreachable... maybe even gone. Everything has been doused in ice water, temperatures cooling, words no longer resentful... _bitter_, like coffee grounds on the tongue left to dissolve.

My jealousy had matched his eyes—ivy weaving around my heart like a poison, polluting my head, leaving behind no reason. He had everything, and left me with nothing but brief kisses and tired responses. I was left aside, pushed to the corner, cobwebs blocking my escape. His dream came true, his ambitions were met. I'd given mine up for him... _everything_ was _always_ for him.

At the time I hadn't cared. It had been my choice. At least I think it had.

There are times I still think back to those countless conversations, the same things repeated over and over. Esme and Carlisle wanted the very best for their son... and I wasn't what they'd hoped for. I knew it... but their opinions meant nothing as long as Edward was beside me holding my hand. They never said those exact words of course, but it was obvious. I was never mentioned in their plans.

Edward had always wanted to be a lawyer for as long as I could remember. He was forever reading books and watching shitty movies based on law.

Even when I was obsessed with Ally McBeal, Edward never failed to watch it with me. He pretended he wasn't interested; a book in his lap that never got read. But every time I would peek at him, his eyes would be on the screen. I would smile and bite my lip to stop my laugh from forming, instead choosing to snuggle into his side. I'd been content.

He completed his last year of law school almost twelve months ago, and is now part of the local firm in Port Angeles that he interned for while still at school.

He got a small wage at the time, which I knew was rare and extremely lucky. The family was a friend of Carlisle's—it showed what having acquaintances in certain places could achieve.

I'd wanted to move to New York, or stay in Seattle... somewhere different than Forks... _better_. But his parents bought us a house on the outskirts of Port Angeles a few months after we married—an act so grandiose it felt impossible to refuse at the time. They wanted him close to home, the same as Emmett. A family unit.

It also meant that Edward could concentrate on his studies without worrying about numerous jobs, loans and rent; so after Edward finished his undergraduate degree in Seattle, I came home and he continued to take classes a few days a week, the travel long, but in his words, worth it.

I left with a bachelor's degree in English literature, and chose to work while he completed his degree. I was to go back and get my master's in English and teaching once he'd passed his bar exam.

It's now been a year.

I'd have done anything for him, including putting my own dreams aside so we could pay the bills.

Money had been offered of course, a loan of sorts, the type of loan that I knew wouldn't need to be paid back. But I said _no, we can't, never._ His parents already gave us this house—there was no way I could have them pay our way. We would have been indebted to them for _everything_, and that is no way to live... no way to start off a marriage. So that was it. The decision had been made so fast. I didn't want to stay in Seattle without him the days and nights he'd be gone, and sure the choice was there—Edward had even encouraged it, told me to come home on the weekends; told me it would all work out fine. But it was never a serious option for me. The love I had for him was so strong that even the thought of only seeing him once... _maybe _twice a week, was unbearable. We hadn't been married long—how could a relationship survive like that?

Now I wonder if maybe it would have been better... for us _both_.

Edward is always tired... especially around me. But sometimes... _sometimes_ I see that old spark in his eyes when he looks at me, and I will him to act on whatever it is going through his head. I want to scream for him to hold me. It's simple, and all I want, so much so, that the need suffocates me.

I take one last look at his face; lips slightly parted, soft breathing coming from between—I can't stop myself.

I'm cautious, and so, so quiet as I lean forward over that invisible line and press my mouth to his for the briefest of moments, my touch as light as a falling feather. He makes a slight noise, but thankfully, doesn't wake.

My lips tingle, and my heart races. But I turn and close my eyes, ending the scene: sealing it with a kiss.

XXX

The view from here is beautiful. I can see the boats in the distance, a family having fun, playing in the sand despite the grey clouds that loom, building the types of castles that bring big smiles to so many faces. Birds circle the water, wings spread while they soar. The water ripples and shimmers as their feet skim the surface, constantly searching.

I take a bite of my sandwich, and sit back against the bench that overlooks the shore, squinting against the dull grey light as I look out once more for the boats. They're probably only for fishing... maybe day trips to get a better look at the beauty that is on offer here. But I still watch and wonder.

I could go and ask, hold on to the railings as they take me out to sea. I would undoubtedly see more from a closer vantage point, but the wonder would disappear, fade like smoke.

I'd notice that the colours of their sides—bold blues and stark whites—have become chipped over time, words now missing from names once lovingly painted. I'd see the birds with their innocent catch, desperate to be free. And the light salt breeze that seems so relaxing to me now, would become more potent, irritating the senses.

No, I won't ask. It's safer to stay here and live in the fantasy.

I know from experience that the reality is so much harsher.

I usually spend my lunch breaks here, alone with my thoughts. I close up the shop and walk the short distance with my coat wrapped tightly around me. I stop at the same little deli every day, and order the same thing: cheese and ham sandwich, black coffee; one sugar, and an almond pastry slice. The young boy behind the counter with long, black hair—Jacob—always starts with,_ Hey Bella, the usual? _and ends with, _Bye Bella, see you tomorrow._

The shop's been quiet today; the sun brings everyone outdoors—books to read on the beach, while lying on soft blankets. Dull skies mean warm fires and friendly conversations. Not business.

My morning had started like every other. I waited for Edward to use the shower first, slipping inside when he'd finished. We brushed our teeth together, yet at different sinks; _his_ and _hers._ There was a time we shared the same one, teasingly knocking the other out of the way with playful hips.

I made coffee; he put the bread in the toaster. The actions may sound sweet when recounting them to another—little things like this always do—but they're out of habit now, and not because we necessarily want to.

He told me he'd be late getting home tonight as he was going out for a drink with Emmett—I wasn't invited. He kissed my cheek, the sentiment again feeling habitual rather than sincere.

I remember times when they were.

**~CitP~**

"Shh, Charlie will hear you," I whisper, glancing anxiously at my closed door. Mom sleeps like the dead—Dad doesn't.

Edward's hair has fallen into his eyes, raindrops sliding down the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He's climbed through my window, like he does most nights, ignorant of the awful weather.

"He sleeps surprisingly heavy for a man of the law," he teases, closing the window behind him. I always tell him not to risk coming over; it's too dangerous with the slippery roads, not to mention climbing the branches of the tree outside my window.

I keep hoping that he'll listen to me, but I think deep down I know he won't.

"You're going to catch a cold or fall from that tree if you carry on ignoring my warnings," I tell him as I pull a towel from the back of my chair for nights just like these. Wet sleeves covering comforting arms encase me from behind; a shriek of surprise immediately escapes my lips as he wipes his face on the back of my neck.

We both freeze as springs in an old mattress from the room opposite protest against their movement. I'm sure this is the day we're discovered, and excuses start whizzing through my head as fast as the fall of the rain outside... but nothing more comes.

"I think we're safe," he whispers in my ear. Shivers attack and build from my spine to my shoulders as his warm breath touches my chilled skin. "Although, I can think of something that will keep you quiet."

"Oh yeah?" I say, twisting in his arms to face his flushed cheeks that are a result of the bitter wind that accompanies the downpour. Flashes fill the sky, the green of his eyes highlighted in the dark room.

His smile, _my_ smile—I love to see it—spreads across his face. "Yeah," and then lips are on mine, telling me things we haven't yet said in words. Kisses that make my heart flutter in ways that should scare me. I pull back, one quick, last joining of lips given before I pass him a dry T-shirt.

He sheds his soaked shirt, and I feel my cheeks heat as he smirks back at me. I swiftly turn around, embarrassed at being caught staring at him. We haven't discussed anything more about what we are yet, no labels given. This is still so new.

When he kisses me, I simply kiss him back.

When his fingers entwine with mine, I don't pull away; I hold back just as tightly and climb between known sheets and into known arms. I curl into him, my head resting on his chest as his fingers play with the strands of my hair—rumbles that shake the house cause his arms to pull me closer.

We lie quietly, not wanting or needing to speak; to compete over the noises outside.

"Wake me before you leave," I whisper as my eyes find his.

"Always," he promises lowly with kisses to my forehead that quickly move to my mouth.

We spend hours like this until the weight of sleep takes over.

**~CitP~**

I blink back the memory, my throat suddenly feeling tight, and check my watch, sighing as I know I have to go back to work—back to my safe place behind the counter that acts as a shield.

I spend the last few minutes watching above as a yellow balloon slips from the hand of a child to colour the sky like the sun would if this were a brighter day.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**And because I'm feeling nosy—how do you all take your coffee?**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	3. Brilliant Broken Glow

**Hey everyone! Again, thank you so much for all your reviews and alerts**.

**I read and appreciate each and every one, and was surprised at the large amount of you that don't like to drink coffee. **

**I thought it was a must in the US. ;)**

**For those who asked, I don't drink it either, as caffeine dislikes me (omg what a hater). But I occasionally have the odd cup of decaf.**

**As always, thank you to my super duper beta Susan for being, well, amazing. And also big thanks to the lovely jedigirlsc for prereading.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. **

**She doesn't, however, own Flash with Febreeze that I used today to clean my floors. (Hi, clean freak present.)  
**

* * *

Bella

Early morning light pours through the bedroom window, soft rays warming my face as it rouses me from sleep like tender kisses to the eyelids. I squint against the change in brightness as I lie between soft sheets that are wrapped around another's body too, lying as still as I can to appreciate this moment a little longer.

I can feel him behind me, warming my skin just like the unexpected sun. I want to shuffle back and intensify it, feel his heat completely. Feel the fiery ache inside my chest dissolve with the contact—melt like ice.

He's quiet, keeping the secret of whether he's awake or still sleeping with him, no clues given in the form of stretching limbs or soft snoring. I twist and turn to face him, all the while wondering if I'll be met with open eyes or closed lids. He's awake—but he's on his back, staring at the ceiling.

In the end, I'm met with neither.

Saturday mornings used to be spent in the best of ways; skin against skin as he moved above me or under me with reverent curses and parted lips. I'd pull him to me so close, fingertips pressed into his back as I met him again and again with eager hips and urgent pleas of,_ don't stop _and repeats of, _I love you._

The way he'd gaze down at me with heated expressions—mixed with love and longing—would leave me all the more breathless and enraptured, my heart so full I'd been sure it would burst.

I would plead with silent words as trembles shook my body inside and out, clinging to him as he did the same. We'd lie together in the middle of the bed, our faces just far enough apart to be able to see the other clearly. My fingers would explore his jaw as his hand rested against my heart, feeling just what he did to me.

His expression would let me know he was feeling it just as much, leaving wonder behind in its wake.

**~CitP~**

"What are you thinking about?" I ask, feeling the texture of his stubble beneath my fingers.

He smiles, his lips turning up at one side. "You."

My cheeks bloom with the best kind of heat—summer days in a favourite summer dress. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he breathes, his palm still under my breast. He holds every string attached to my heart, master of it all.

I shift closer, my leg covering his under the sheets.

"_What_ about me?" I pry, looking straight into his eyes.

His other hand finds the curve of my spine. "Oh, you know... how beautiful you are."

My blush deepens as I push at his chest. "Stop teasing me."

"I'm not." He says it so seriously that it makes my smile fall, forgotten items dropped from loose holds. "I mean it."

I keep quiet, not knowing what to say to that. He looks to his palm that's still monitoring my heartbeat, his gaze flickering to mine like the bright flame of a candle as he says his next words. "I think about how lucky I am... _all_ the time."

My breath is shaky as I exhale. _Is it supposed to be like this... so all consuming?_ Right now I don't think I'm awake. It feels like I'm dreaming. Things like this just don't happen to everyone.

I shake my head slightly on the pillow. "_I'm_ the lucky one," I reply, my fingers moving to his lips, tracing their smoothness.

His lips pucker against them for the smallest of seconds, the atmosphere around us changing like the seasons—winter to spring and back again. "I'm going to marry you someday, you know," he states, his words holding so much promise, like rings on certain fingers.

I have to finally pull his hand from my skin—he can't be privy to everything I'm feeling. It's simply not fair. His touch doesn't leave though; it simply finds a new direction, a new place, finding my cheek, a gentle pressure for me to look at him. I grip his wrist, a lot tighter than I should—it's another tell-tale sign that I want to keep locked away, just in case.

So many thoughts whiz through my head, dizzying like bright lights on a dark night. Ferris wheels going around and around again. _We're too young, only just nineteen. We have school, and commitments._ But then I look at the earnest expression on his face... and suddenly I don't care—more than anything I want him to ask me, because there would never be any doubt if those words left his mouth. No hesitation. He'd make me happier than I ever thought possible; so much happiness that I wouldn't know what to do with it.

"And if I say no?" I ask, because I simply have to, and not because I ever would.

His eyes hold mine, heavy weights in place in the most fantastic colour imaginable. At least to me.

His Adam's apple bobs with his heavy swallow. "Then I'd try that much harder so that next time you'd _have_ to say yes," he says confidently.

"And your parents?" I whisper. He has to know they would never allow it.

His breath holds and I look harder and really _see_... He's suddenly not so confident, but definitely determined. "They're not important."

Now it's my turn to swallow the lump in my throat. I pull his face to mine, leaving no room... no doubt.

"Well then," I say with a clear of my throat, "thanks for letting me know. I'll be ready when you ask me."

I'm playing now, trying to lighten the mood.

"And your answer?" he asks, brushing his nose against mine.

I hold back my smile. "I'm not telling you that. It would spoil the surprise."

His eyes narrow. "You hate surprises."

"Only when they happen to me," I reply, playfully pulling back when he tries to kiss me... distract me.

He smirks, his hand moving down to my ass as he presses his hardness against the place that wants him most.

"Surprises like _this_?" he questions, the amusement evident in the tone of his voice—music to my ears.

I laugh and hide behind my hands, suddenly embarrassed. I shake my head.

"Good," he sighs, pressing his lips to mine.

He rolls us over so his body fully covers my own, pushing himself into me with the heavy weight of promise still drifting around us like the thickest of storm clouds.

**~CitP~**

He still stares at the ceiling as if it holds the secrets to our problems, small squares of paper falling down to his skin like petals from a dying flower, words in the boldest of colours pushing their way inside his mind.

It doesn't make me realise how much we've drifted apart—I already know that—it just intensifies it. I've been dull brass and unpolished silver, waiting to become bright once more; silver stars that captivate.

If you close yourself off for long enough, you can push so many thoughts to the back of the mind. The same thoughts that make you want to scream. The same thoughts that make you want to fall to your knees as racking sobs attack the body; the same thoughts that leave you angry and disgusted.

None of them exist if you extract yourself from the situation and simply go on pretending that everything is fine—which is exactly what I've been doing.

"Do you have plans today?" I eventually ask. The silence has been suffocating—I want to breathe deep and clear and eradicate it. Even if only for a little while.

He finally looks my way, his eyes cloudy, as if he really has been lost this whole time.

"I'm not sure yet," he replies, a small furrow to his brows.

_So you have plans... you just don't know if you want to share them with me? Is that it?_

I nod, memories coming to the surface once more like debris skimming water. "Do you remember that weekend we spent in Seattle at Christmastime completely snowed-in?"

I freeze, ice seeping through my veins...

I hadn't meant to vocalise anything. And especially not here, now, in this bed where he is close enough to touch.

His expression makes me want to take the words back, lock them away in chests with numerous locks; climb the ladder that leads to the attic where they will be left to gather dust.

His gaze falters for the briefest of moments, but it's enough. I _see_ it. "I think..." he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Yeah."

His tone lets me know he doesn't want to talk about this. He's not in control of the conversation; he doesn't know what I'm thinking or where I could take it. He doesn't like to go back. Or rather, not with me. It makes me want to push him, find out more; find out exactly what he's thinking, right this second, because anything has got to be better than this right here.

But then maybe he's just _done_ and too much of a coward to tell me to my face.

I swallow down my nerves and decide to press those buttons that used to get him to talk—they know my fingers so well. "We had fun... spent the day watching movies, eating ice cream despite the cold," I breathe. I feel stupid that I can't think of anything else to say that won't sound accusing, because we don't do any of that now. We don't have fun.

He's back to looking at me, but this time I sense anger, like he knows what I'm doing and resents me for it.

I try again.

"I have work this morning, but after..."

I stop.

There is no after.

My words trail off as the furrow in his brow becomes deeper. His eyes tear themselves from mine, refusing to look back. "I'm going to go shower."

This time I know he's had enough. He leaves the bed feeling cold and empty, sheet corners thrown my way.

He closes the door with a soft click, and oh how I wish he'd slam it... show me something other than this face he walks around with all the time, day after day.

I grasp the cotton in my hands, fists weakly forming, wishing I could go after him. But I can't.

I don't have the strength.

XXX

I sit and turn page after page, my eyes taking in words that so many keep close to their heart—treasures found in simple ink.

The store is empty apart from an elderly gentleman who moves slowly from one aisle to the next, his hand trailing the spines of the books, feeling the different textures beneath his fingertips, the leather old and wrinkled just like his skin.

He has yet to make a purchase. He just keeps treading along, his walking cane dragging against the floorboards as he goes.

He's either disappointed at what he finds lining the shelves, or he's remembering titles that have had a part to play in his life.

I pause in my reading and start to wonder what he_ feels _when he looks in the mirror every day, seeing the changes in his face; the drooping skin and paler eyes—the white locks of his hair that were once a different shade, richer in colour.

Does he have regrets and sorrows? Would he go back and change anything... anything at all?

The years have passed by in long stages for him; he must be well over seventy.

I place a bookmark between the pages of the book I'm reading as I smile sadly; I hope he's lived a full life.

And while my years are only yet still small, I already want to go back to past times and change them—not all of them, only certain parts: the parts where things start to fall apart, pages pulled from our book and torn.

I want to be happy, and really mean it when someone asks me if I'm okay. Smile so big and free that it hurts my cheeks. Feel the ache long after that smile has gone, simply to remember it was once there.

There are so many things I long to plan and learn: see the world and not be afraid to explore it, experience the warmth of the bluest ocean on my skin, try the finest foods, meet the smartest people the world has to offer. I want to feel the sun on my cheeks and the wind in my hair, hear the sounds of my shoes as they scuff along the tarmac and concrete of foreign cities.

I want to be able to meet the eyes of others in the street around me and not smile because I feel I have to... but, rather, feel like it's okay to not always be polite to those I don't know—that I don't always have to follow what is right.

For once, I want to do what_ I_ want and bear no consequences, even if they start just as small as something like that.

And more than anything, I want to _want_ these things enough to actually go ahead with them, and no longer hide in my shell.

I want to break free and live and remember that new and young excitement I used to feel when Edward would look and me and smile; feel the blush that struck my cheeks, bloomed with happiness and embarrassment—electric bliss.

I want to hear his playful words and teasing touches that started as more _friend_ than anything else, and be wherever he is; be the reason that he suddenly seems to be around so much—turning up at the same lunch table as me and stopping by for camping equipment that he won't use while I work my shift at Newton's.

I want him to touch my face and whisper things that hold so much but accomplish nothing; crooked smiles and messy hair.

He did it all so often, and I loved them every single time. Longed for them, even.

And those instances, while leaving me desperate for more and more and more, were what started all of this.

The heels of my palms find my eyes.

_I want it all again._

I'm pulled from my inner musings as the bell above the door jingles, happy voices joining the already cheerful ring of metal against metal.

The three faces are immediately recognisable, one causing deeper emotions than the other two.

Rosalie and her friend from the party—the one in red—are smiling and laughing as they relay something to Jasper who follows behind them.

A sudden emotion surges, spreading like wildfire.

_I don't want them here in my own little piece of the world._

Jasper's gaze travels around the shop for a few seconds before it meets mine, his lips turning up into a smile, resulting in my own stare to change course and focus on something that isn't them.

His smile is genuine, and I know I should smile back, but I'm weirdly nervous, but not really because of him. Or maybe just a little. I don't know him. I've met him once, that's all. Yes, he was nice. Yes, he shared bits of his work and such. But I have that mindless chatter with customers all the time.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, resigned—I feel guilty that I didn't smile back. He kept me company last night when no one else did; the guilt floods my system to a higher level.

I quickly go about tidying papers and receipts, finding anything that will keep my attention so I won't be tempted to take those nagging glances that my mind keeps telling me to make, back and forth like a twisted spring.

My discomfort is mainly due to my surprise at seeing Rosalie here—she's never stopped by before. She doesn't exactly look like the sort of woman who scours used book stores in the hope of finding that longed for piece of text that has been incessantly plaguing her mind. But then, I know better than anyone that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. After all, I don't really know her either.

And as for her friend, I can't help but feel that jealousy all over again as I remember her attention towards my husband. I don't know her, yet a big part of me naturally wants to.

I hadn't thought much about her after returning home last night, that forgotten piece in an unfinished puzzle, but now I can't seem to stop.

_Did Edward know her before last night? How long will she be staying in town? _And more importantly:_ Will he be seeing her again?_

If she's staying for Rosalie's wedding, then I have no doubt that their paths will cross again. I shouldn't be worried, Edward would _never... _but I_ am_. The doubt creeps in, a darkness spreading, smothering like oil.

I force myself to stop, knowing this will do nothing but drive me crazy, and instead make my way to the elderly gentleman who was here first, asking if he needs any help. He doesn't, but gives me a smile, that in this instance, I return easily.

"Bella?" And there is that hand on my arm again, just like the first time we met. The warmth is nice.

"Jasper... Hi, nice to see you again," I say, peeking behind him as I do so. "Did you need some help finding something?"

He shakes his head with a soft upturn of lips. "No, I just wanted to say hello."

That blush returns, just like it did last night. It's ridiculous and I have to move back behind my counter, put a distance between me and the rest of them.

"I'm surprised to see you here," I voice as he leans against the wooden top, watching me.

"Rose has been showing Kate around town," he replies.

And suddenly the girl has a name.

"She practically dragged Rose in here," he laughs. "She shares your passion for books, it seems."

I don't add that it appears she shares my passion for certain _other_ things as well.

"That's good," I nod, my eyes once again drifting as the two women approach.

"I forgot you worked here, Isabella," is the first thing that comes from Rosalie Hale's mouth. It's strange... I don't think I've ever mentioned where I work to her before. Mainly because she's never asked.

"Yeah, here I am," I say, forcing a smile.

Her blue eyes assess me for longer than I like; she does this every time we unintentionally cross paths. I'm unsure of her, can't get a clear read. She's either very straight forward or she hides an awful lot—one extreme or the other. But then Emmett adores her, and I know it's unlikely he would fall for someone who was ugly on the inside, despite their beauty on the outside. He's just not like that.

"It's a great store—I could spend hours in here." The girl—Kate—is talking to me, bright eyes and shiny hair. She really is very pretty.

And I'm sure Edward thought so too.

"Thanks, I like it," I say politely.

Rosalie seems to find herself, and makes the introduction. "God, I'm sorry. Isabella, Kate.

"Kate, this is Isabella, Edward's wife."

Her smile wanes just a little, like a light bulb just before it blows. "Lovely to meet you."

I find myself saying the right words, too, even though I don't feel the truth behind them. "You too."

A throat is cleared. "You should come with us to lunch," Jasper interrupts, my own voice instantly dying in my throat. "You have breaks, right?"

The invitation has left me feeling awkward as I struggle to find the right words. I look at the other two, who simply smile and nod back at me.

Their silence says everything.

I'm probably reading too much into it, but still, I'm going to lie.

"Yeah, but not for another hour or so yet," I answer, checking my watch for good measure. "Maybe next time."

His expression gets serious. "I'll hold you to that," he replies, holding my gaze for a beat too long.

I simply nod and take the books from Kate's hold, her nails still bright red—I have to quickly look away from them as I remember the way they wrapped around arms that didn't belong to them.

The three of them leave shortly afterwards, the relief instantaneous as I slump into my seat. There is no one left here but me, and for the first time today, the silence is a comfort, caressing like gentle hands and love filled words whispered against skin.

I'm so tired, the hurt of this morning still lingering. But the need to get some fresh air is too strong.

My movements are quick despite my fatigue as I grab my coat and lock up the store behind me, my eagerness to sit on my favourite bench and look out onto my favourite view pushing me like steady wheels along a track.

I hurry along, my hood getting blown from my head as the wind picks up and bites at my skin, tendrils of hair weaving in front of my vision again and again—willow branches wild in the breeze.

I carry on.

I don't care enough to pull it back.

* * *

** Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**Also, as an extra: What's your favourite movie? **

**I'll leave mine now as I'm feeling chatty. Edward Scissorhands. I adore it.**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	4. Time Won't Let Me Go

**Hey again everyone. I hope you all had a great weekend. As always, thanks for all the alerts and reviews. They make my day.**

**Huge thanks to the amazing jedigirlsc for acting as role of beta while my lovely Susan is still on her cruise. **

**Thanks to AmeryMarie who kindly rec'd this story in her last chapter of 'New Habits: Bad Habits, Book Two'.**

** And to phoebes promise who wrote a lovely review for this on the Indie Fic Pimp blog.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

It feels like déjà vu as we pull up to his parents' house, this time bearing gifts that are wrapped in festive paper and shiny bows. The engine cuts off, but I make no move to get out, my gaze instead drifting to the window of a room that used to make my heart fly like a hummingbird's wing every time the door clicked closed.

But now all I feel is a heaviness that stops that wing from trying to move, feathers set in stone.

I take a deep breath and push those feelings down, wishing I could wrap them in pretty paper and cast them away: send them to someone else to deal with, like so many other unwanted gifts others' will receive today.

Edward's eyes are focused on the same window as I turn to face him, his hands tight around the steering wheel, white like bone.

I want to reach over and cover them, pry his fingers loose; let him squeeze _my_ hands if he needs to, show_ me_ something. But he's already in motion and out the door, exchanging hugs with his mother.

I follow his lead and reach for the handle, fixing my expression to one of easiness as I smile back at Esme.

"Happy Christmas, Isabella."

I nod, and repeat the sentiment back, even though this holiday has been anything _but_ happy so far.

Edward takes the bag of gifts from my hand as we reach the porch, his fingers careful not to touch mine. He doesn't look at me, and without a word, he follows his mother inside, leaving me to follow after him.

There was a time that he'd let me go first, but not anymore. It's almost as if he's trying to run... block me out.

I hold back just a little, taking the smallest amount of comfort I can with steady breaths before I have to adorn more fake smiles like frozen portraits in a gallery.

I'd wanted to spend Christmas with _my_ parents this year, a big part of me needing their familiarity and love; whether it be in the form of Charlie's silent presence or Renee's chatter to keep my mind busy... I just needed _something_ other than the unreadable expressions I'm met with day after day.

I don't want to have to long for something as simple as a smile.

But, of course, Edward had already promised his parents without asking me first. We are no longer a couple, making decisions together—we're separate people living under the same roof: a pairing that used to be so much more.

Laughter draws me to the correct room, my mind screaming against the merriment, refusing to allow it to affect me.

But it does.

The room doesn't fall quiet when I step inside; I'm all but invisible. Except to one person. Everyone else is opening gifts—I'll leave mine for later.

My hand finds the locket that always lies around my neck, fingers fumbling with the clasp to keep me grounded. I feel relieved that Jasper's here... That someone outside my immediate circle can maybe take that edge off.

It's selfish of me to think like this, but the respite is too good to ignore.

I'm surprised he's been invited...

I stop short.

Of course he would be; he's Rosalie's brother. Perfect Rosalie that Esme adores.

That relief lasts all of minutes when I spot the other guest for dinner.

My gaze moves from the grey of Jasper's eyes, to the laughter that is coming from red lips.

_Kate._

My blood runs cold as my finger traces the heart around the picture I know to be Edward's inside the locket.

_Did he know she'd be here?_

It's a pointless wonder—why would he mention it to me? I don't know her, she isn't important to me, to him. At least I hope she isn't. Although, his attention is to _her_ right now, not me.

And I can't pretend that doesn't hurt.

The memories that flood my system almost seem cruel now—even if I close my eyes, they'll still be there, haunting me with their lightness and shining green.

The differences of then and now make me want to give in to the tears that threaten, burning like the sting of ice on already frozen skin.

I don't give in. Won't give in to them... here... _now_.

Emmett comes over, drink in hand. He passes it to me along with a one-armed hug.

"Did you get me a good gift this year?" he asks, that loveable, boyish smile lighting up his face.

"Do I ever let you down?" I reply with a raised brow, amused.

He laughs. "No yet. But there's always time."

_Time_.

He seems so sure that they'll be plenty of it—_time_—so sure that Edward and I are going to last.

But then why would he think any differently?

If I'd seen how happy we were in the beginning, I wouldn't either.

Emmett's not stupid; he must see something isn't right. But every marriage has its problems along the way—small hitches that build and build until it all threatens to crumble. Which is exactly what I'm currently dealing with.

The walls, however, are proving difficult to rebuild. They don't want to form and stay solid; instead they choose to wobble and waver, the foundations rocky and unable to support their weight.

My eyes find Rosalie as she joins Kate and Esme, sharing their smiles as she smoothes down the long, droopy bow at the neck of her pale blue blouse.

"Are you nervous?" I ask Emmett, looking up at his face.

His brows furrow, lips puckering just ever so slightly. "Nervous? About what?"

I look to the thick veins running along his bare forearms, sleeves turned up to his elbows. "Getting married," I shrug.

"Nah," he grins, his gaze naturally making its way to Rosalie. "I can't wait to officially make Rose mine."

I smile softly, his words so sincere.

"I can't let Edward have all the married fun now, can I?" he winks. I say nothing, and bring the glass to my lips, taking the smallest of sips. I'm not at all thirsty... or hungry, for that matter.

"I guess not," I murmur as Emmett excuses himself when Rose calls him to her.

Carlisle has Jasper looking at a particular book that rests at the table, so I take the opportunity to sit in the chair he'd previously occupied. It's the comfiest one in the room.

I sigh, wanting nothing more than to go home, especially when I see Edward sidle up next to Kate and his mother.

He doesn't engage her in conversation, though—and surprisingly, she finds her way over to me.

My hands tighten around the throw cushion on my lap, the corners creasing around my fingers.

"Merry Christmas," she grins, motioning to the space next to me, a silent question asked.

"Merry Christmas," I repeat, nodding, sliding over a little for effect, letting it seem I have no issues with her wanting to sit next to me.

My jealousy, however, says otherwise.

"I love this time of year," she sighs, focusing her attention around the room. "Although, the waistbands on my jeans don't—I always over indulge." She winks as if it's some sort of special secret between the two of us.

"Yeah, me too. It's the leftover turkey and potatoes that do it," I answer good-naturedly.

"And the stuffing," she giggles.

She sets her drink on the small table in front of us, the wood a dark cherry. "What about you? Are you a fan of Christmas?"

I think... _am I_? "I used to be," I find myself answering. "Not so much now, though."

_Too much has changed_, I add to myself.

"Any particular reason?" she asks, studying my face far too closely for comfort, eyes searching for things she has no right to know.

I swallow against the lump in my throat, my eyes darting from her face, only to fall on the expressionless one of Edward's as he watches us both.

I want to ask him what differences he sees right now. And which ones appeal more.

She finds my distraction, her head turning in his direction.

"Just grew out of it, I guess," I say, my gaze lingering on his green one for a few more seconds, before tearing away.

She continues to talk to me about more inconsequential things. And each time I look at her face and take in her features, I want to hate her.

But I can't.

Which makes the need all the more great.

She seems perfectly nice... friendly; big smiles and easy hand movements as she tells a story. I can see why everyone else likes her.

"I'm going to go see if Esme needs any help in the kitchen," she says as she eventually stands. "Do you want anything?"

She's already calling Esme by her first name—it took me months and months to stop calling her Mrs. Cullen.

I shake my head in response to her question.

_Only for you to leave. I can't talk like this anymore and pretend, just... _please_._

I find my voice. "No, I'm good, thank you."

She picks up her empty glass, giving me a red-lipped smile. "Okay."

I take a deep breath. And then another. My eyes are closed when I feel the seat next to me dip.

_Five minutes. That's all I need. Alone._

I'm met with grey eyes when I open my own.

"I'm not boring you already, am I? I haven't even said anything yet." He smirks, hands resting on his knees as he leans forward a little.

I shake my head, smiling lightly. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just tired," I lie.

"Yeah, this holiday takes it out of me, too. I'll be glad when it's all over and the sun decides to show itself again."

He looks out to the window, his hair falling into his lashes.

"You won't get too much of that here: spring, summer... _whatever_, it's mostly all the same," I say, finally moving the cushion from my grasp.

He shifts slightly, head turning further towards me. "Yeah, I heard that about here," he smiles.

I answer him with one of my own, easily distracted when a pair of hands I know so well enter my vision.

Edward hands me a Christmas card, placing himself into the empty spot on the other side of me. "It's from my Mom and Dad," he voices before I've even had chance to open it.

I lean back against the cushions, while the other two remain forward at a slight angle. I can see them both so clearly from this position.

"Oh, okay," I say, not bothering to open it yet. I set it down on my lap, staring at the cursive scrawl of Esme's handwriting.

"So, how are you liking, Forks, Jasper?" Edward inquires, looking across me, to him.

His hand finds his light hair. "It's different," he answers. "Quiet."

Edward nods, the action sharp.

"I was just telling Bella about my longing for some sunshine," he smiles, directing it at me.

I don't answer; I simply twist the card around in my hands, catching my finger on a corner of the envelope that hasn't been sealed.

A small line of red appears at the pad of my finger, a tiny drop sliding down my skin like candle wax on porcelain—rubies against crystal.

I mutter a _damn_, and reach for my purse, hoping I have a tissue somewhere inside.

There are suddenly two different hands reaching for my wrist: one touch is much more distracting than the other.

Jasper quickly recoils, while Edward's hold strengthens.

"Come on, I'll find you a Band-Aid." He stands, expecting me to do the same.

I shake my head. "Edward, it's nothing," I dismiss.

His hand reaches towards me, palm up, eyes hard. He can't always expect me to ask _how high?_ when he wants me to jump.

I stare back, refusing his help as I get to my feet and brush past him.

I make my way into the downstairs bathroom, ignoring Carlisle's gaze as it follows me out of the room.

As I attempt to close the door, a hand shoots out, pushing it back open. I don't look at him, angry that when he finally decides he wants to act like he cares, it's around someone we really don't know.

He turns on the faucet and I push my finger under the cold water for a few seconds, watching the water turn a pale pink as it circles around the drain, like cotton candy swirling around a stick.

A towel is placed in my hand, and I pat the area dry as I watch him look through the cabinet above the sink.

He evidently finds what he's looking for, as the cabinet door clicks closed, his hand replacing the towel.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

I suck in my cheeks, gazing up at him. "It's tiny. It's nothing."

He concentrates on peeling the wrapping from the Band-Aid. "The smallest cuts can sometimes be the most painful."

He says it quietly, almost as if I'm not meant to actually hear the words.

I expect him to let go immediately, but his finger lingers, smoothing over the tan coloured fabric.

"Edward? Isabella?" A knock sounds at the door, along with the voice.

My hand falls to my side.

"Yes?"

"Dinner's ready," Rosalie informs us.

He opens the door and doesn't look back as he follows his future sister-in-law into the dining room.

I turn off the light behind me, my eyes drawn to the wide staircase that leads up to the floors that hold the bedrooms.

I remember running up them almost every day in summers past—afternoons when Esme and Carlisle weren't at home.

**~CitP~**

"No," I laugh, running ahead of him, hoping like hell I don't trip up the stairs.

I hear him behind me, his footsteps heavy, but muffled, in sound.

I hesitate for the briefest of seconds as I decide which direction I should run in, but it's long enough for Edward to catch me around the waist, my back to his front.

"I told you I'd catch you," he breathes against my neck.

I shiver despite the warm weather, goose bumps of a different kind grazing over my skin.

We'd been washing the car he'd just gotten for his sixteenth birthday. It wasn't planned, but when Edward had turned up at Newton's just as I was finishing my shift, murmuring something about needing hiking boots, he'd lingered in the parking lot, asking me if I was busy.

He said his parents were going out, and that he'd have the house to himself, his gaze unwavering as he looked back at my face.

His attention made my face flush, the skin warm as my fingertips found their way to my cheeks in a nervous gesture.

Anxiety made me want to say, _yes, I have to get home_, while the much more dominant part of me said, _no no, no, I'm free, always_, like the infatuated teenager I was.

In the end I'd said neither, and simply shook my head instead, indicating I wasn't busy.

Our plans of watching a movie were put on hold when his mother told him he had to wash his car before doing anything else—she'd apparently been telling him to do it for days with no success.

I hadn't minded, especially when his parents drove off... and Edward removed his t-shirt.

I kept my eyes down, slightly embarrassed, and so, so nervous. And as I was bending down to re-soap my sponge, water had shot out and hit my back, the cold making me gasp.

A water fight had ensued shortly after.

I'd retaliated by throwing the sponge in his face, both shocked and exhilarated when it actually made it on target. But I'd forgotten he had the hose. _Silly, Bella._

I'd ran into the house, knowing he couldn't bring it inside.

I hadn't counted on him chasing after me, though.

His hand rests on my stomach, fingertips finding the small amount of exposed skin from where my wet shirt has slid up.

He's been touching me a lot more like this, and I try not to get my hopes up—try not to let them soar high like diamond shapes on string against the bluest of backdrops. But it's just as easy to pretend.

"It's not fair; your legs are longer," I point out in return to his earlier statement, making no move to remove his arms from around me. I want to lean back further, melt into his touch like ice-cream left out in the heat.

I feel his smile as his cheek touches mine.

My heart is racing, my adrenaline spiked. It feels like I'll stop breathing at any second.

"Maybe," he agrees, his voice lowering. "But I think it has more to do with that fact I just_ really_ wanted to finally catch you."

His lips brush against my neck as he speaks that last part, arms leaving me as he walks backwards down the hall, a side-smile on his lips.

I don't know if it was intentional, but at this moment, I really don't care.

"Come on, I'll find you a dry shirt."

He waits for me to draw up alongside him, and instead of turning away, he continues to walk backwards, his smirk only getting bigger.

The smile that's on my face feels like it's never going to leave.

**~CitP~**

The dining room table is laid out with all the foods you'd expect; table settings the deepest of reds, highlighted with gold—a rose and its stem.

I sit and pretend everything is alright; tell myself that things will be different—that I'll make them different.

I sit and know that these are all false promises—I've been repeating this same speech for months.

And even though I don't want to be here, I stay seated, because there's a good chance that if I get to my feet, I will fall.

I look across to the smiling faces opposite me—Kate and Rosalie—realising more than ever that I don't want to feel broken or hopeless. I want to be just like them. I want that hope; I want to reach out and grab it and hold on to it _so_ _tight_ with both hands—let it guide me and make everything better. Have it keep me warm like the sun's rays as it shuts out the cold thoughts that threaten to ruin my day.

Edward passes me a dish, and I wordlessly take it from him, spooning something onto my plate that I take no notice of. I'm in autopilot mode.

I don't know how much longer we can carry on like this. I know I need to ignore the words that come unbidden to my mind—the ones filled with panic that try to destroy everything we've built.

And everything we haven't.

And I know I should keep a clear head—a clear vision—and fight this feeling that makes me want to crawl back into the past and forget. Again and again and again. But it's so hard. I don't know if I'm strong enough to do it alone. And Edward... Edward doesn't like to talk. He runs, or ignores, _anything_ so he doesn't have to discuss.

"How are your parents, Bella? I haven't spoken to Charlie in a while," Carlisle asks me.

I poke my fork into a slice of turkey, pushing it around my plate. "He's good, thanks," I answer, smiling back at him.

Carlisle nods as he fills his plate with the creamy mashed potatoes. "I'll tell him you were asking after him when I see him a little later," I add, noticing Edward's hand pause by the side of mine.

"And your mother, too," he reminds me before turning to Emmett at his right, joining in his conversation.

"I didn't know you were planning on going to your parents this evening," Edward states, his voice low, meant for only me.

I tilt my head, meeting his eyes. "I didn't know I had to run it by you first," I say stoically.

His jaw clenches ever so slightly. "That's not what I meant," he responds, a long sigh escaping his nose.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You do things without asking me all the time," I point out. "Like agreeing to this, for example."

His expression shows his frustration. "You're twisting this. I was merely making a statement," he responds.

I take a bite of my food, not really tasting anything. "And so am I."

His gaze is long and hard, and even though I want to look away, I can't. The atmosphere around us crackles like the logs currently in the fire, the others' voices drowning out.

I don't know which one of us looks away first, but my eyes are suddenly staring at the food on my plate that I can't remember putting there.

XXX

Charlie is sleeping in his favourite chair that has seen better days, the arms a little faded, patches re-sewn. Mom has begged him time and time again to throw it out; she insists it makes the room look untidy. He's never listened, though, and I think she mostly says it now out of habit than anything else. There's no harm in the small comfort of an old chair.

Dad's light snores mingle with the low volume of the television, his moustache occasionally twitching above his lip. He's always taken a nap after Christmas dinner.

I'm sitting on the sofa, my head on my mother's shoulder as she runs her fingers through my hair, comforting me the way she has since I was little.

She hasn't asked me what's wrong, and I haven't let on that anything is. She's done exactly what I needed her to do: keep my mind busy. And I think she knew that, too.

Neither of them mentioned Edward, but a look was shared when I said he was spending a bit more time with his own parents.

Renee presses a kiss to my temple as her fingers continue to move, snaking through my hair like raindrops sliding down glass.

"Merry Christmas, Baby," she whispers.

And for the first time today, I don't feel so alone.

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

XXX

His fingers steadily type away at the laptop as the sound of tapping keys continues to be the backdrop to the otherwise silent room, the noise irritating like that of a dripping faucet as water hits metal time and time again.

I don't ask what he's working on; it's probably a case, information that I can't be privy to... much like the inner workings of his mind... his _heart_.

With each tap of the keys, an old and familiar desperation surfaces, rising like the morning sun, bright and hot. _Say something, please._

And like he can somehow hear my inner plea, he angles his head to look at me, insistent green eyes holding me steady despite the fluttering in my stomach that suggests otherwise. I'm like a bird in a cage, safe and partly content in this moment, yet still wanting to flee.

I've been home for the last hour, the visit to my parents in the end short... and still... nothing.

I don't know what I want him to say, but my silent pleas do nothing apart from make me ache—purple bruises on pale skin that fade slowly.

His lips part, and I think this is it; he'll say something that will either make everything better, or push us farther apart until the distance is too great. I won't be able to reach him and make him see that I still _feel_.

Instead I'm met with empty space as he gets up and leaves the room.

I know that my pillow will once again soak up tears before bed, dreading that when I wake, the whole process will repeat itself.

* * *

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**Thanks so much for reading. **

**VHL xx**


	5. Shoot Your Gun

**Hey everyone. Thank you all for your patience between updates. **

**I'm sorry it's been so long; between hospital stays and so on, I just didn't have the time or energy to write.**

**Huge thanks to my beta Susan who finds time for me even when she shouldn't. And to Judy for doing the same. They're both too good to me.**

**I'm sorry not everyone received their teaser—fanfic decided my review reply URLs were outdated, and as they have a daily message limit on here, I was only able to send to a certain amount.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. **

* * *

Bella

The sky is a warm blue today. It reminds me of a soft, fuzzy blanket—the kind you have as a child... the one that goes everywhere with you despite the fraying that is now apparent at the edges. It is comfort and my eyes don't want to leave the colour; I don't want to be met with the stark white walls that surround me as I wait for the coffee machine to do its job.

The door opens and I am pulled away, my gaze finding more beauty, just without the solace.

The back hem of Edward's t-shirt is caught in the top of his jeans this morning, and I want to reach out and tug it free, attempt to make everything perfect. But he's too far away at a table not looking at me like I am at him. He's up later than usual, the clock reading almost midday, yet he still looks tired, as if he hasn't had a full night's sleep in a while.

And I know that feeling all too well. It's an old, unwelcome friend that I wish would just leave.

I take a mug from the cupboard... _his_ mug—the same mug he's had since we were teens. It has a slight chip on the handle from where I accidently dropped it in the sink a few years back, a flaw of white porcelain against dark blue paint. I love that he hasn't discarded it, thrown it away with other things that are now deemed worthless. It gives me hope that if he can keep something as simple as this, then maybe he'll feel the same way about me, too. That I'm worth sticking around for; that _we're _worth sticking around for.

I sit across from him and slide the coffee in his direction, reluctant to remove my hand from the warmth until he reaches for it, wanting that contact I now expect and crave each morning. But minutes pass and his hands remain where they are: folded together on a wooden table that is dotted with dark knots in the grain.

My eyes stare and stare, my mouth tightens—I'm being stubborn, not willing to give up just yet. I'm being ridiculous, fighting for something as small as this; fighting for something that is nothing in comparison to everything else that is happening to us.

"You can leave it there. I'll have it in a minute." It's a dismissal. It's a _leave me alone._

It's another pierce to my already damaged heart.

I get up—_give_ up—and turn around, immediately closing my eyes as I hear the scrape of the mug against the wood. My throat constricts, a noose around my neck.

My gaze once again finds blue sky.

XXX

I put in my favourite earrings, the pair my mom gave me when I turned fourteen. They'd belonged to her own mother—she'd thought I was responsible enough to be given them. I wish I knew what she'd seen in me that had caused her to reach that decision. I wish I'd asked, instead of simply giving the biggest of smiles before sitting in front of her dresser as I tried them on. They're silver, with delicate diamonds encrusted around the outer edges, like the shape of a crystal fringed sun.

My dress is simple, black—I don't feel like celebrating. New Year's had always been exciting to me as a kid. I loved how I was allowed to stay up until midnight with my parents, always feeling so grown-up. We'd sit in the backyard and watch the fireworks that our neighbours would send scuttling towards the darkness before exploding into some of the prettiest colours I'd ever seen. Dad never got us any of our own, always being Mr. Safety, but he did buy me a sparkler every year, while making sure that I kept it well away from my body. It was like whizzing sherbet on a stick; I laughed each time I'd wave it out in front of me, making shapes that made no sense.

But those times have long gone, disappearing just like those fireworks, and I'm going somewhere that is somehow now just as familiar to me, but not as longed for.

"Are you ready to go?" He already has the car keys in his hand, spinning them around his finger like a dizzying Catherine Wheel.

He's dressed smartly, white shirt and pressed charcoal trousers—I suddenly miss his worn jeans and plaid shirts that I would end up stealing when I got cold, rather than slip on a sweater from my own closet.

"I just need to get my shoes," I say, turning back to my reflection in the mirror. Sometimes it hurts to look at him. Memories... always so many memories.

**~CitP~**

I always find myself staring out the window before class begins, eyes drifting from parked car to parked car, the different coloured paint blurring into one giant mass, like smudged rainbows. And today is no different. But the reasons aren't the same as they are in other classes. No... _this_ reason has just pulled his chair from under the desk beside me.

Whatever aftershave he must put on in the mornings lingers over me like smoke, further evidence that he's right _here_. My pulse quickens, and it feels like my heart is going to push its way from my chest, which only ever happens when he's around. I feel ridiculous and childish, and more than anything, I want this weird feeling to never go away, even though, sometimes I think I hate it.

I've only spoken to Edward Cullen a handful of times, all consisting of words that have everything to do with the assignments and nothing to do with me... or him.

I've noticed boys before, but they've simply been fleeting moments—someone walking in the opposite direction to me in the supermarket aisle with a friendly smile—but this... this is different. These aren't fleeting moments, they're everyday butterfly attacks and flushed cheeks, and jealousy over how long his lashes are.

"Are you okay?" His voice is closer... louder than I expected. I startle, realising I'm still staring out the window, and swing my head around too fast, instantly feeling a little dizzy.

"Um, yeah. I'm fine," I say, blinking.

He carries on staring, and almost looks irritated with himself over something, but his eyes... they don't leave mine. _Beautiful... devastating._

"You have a little ink on your cheek," he informs me, not looking at wherever the supposed mark is.

My eyes drop to my fingers, seeing the blue smudges, knowing my pen has leaked. Again. "Oh," I mumble. "Where?"

I look back at him expectantly, and hold my breath as he hesitates for the briefest of moments before the pads of his fingers brush across my right cheek.

His lips part. "Right... _there_."

_Oh God._

I use the sleeve of my sweater to try and rub the spot where his fingers touched, eyes darting to his face as I pull my hand away. "Gone?"

He shakes his head. "No, not even close."

Then he smiles, and it's slightly crooked, but perfect, and I swear my heart can't take much more.

Again,_ beautiful_... _devastating_.

**~CitP~**

I hear Carlisle before I see him, his laugh travelling around the side of the house. Edward walks beside me, hands in pockets, seemingly at ease. I want nothing more than to turn back around—I don't want to follow _this_ yellow brick road.

Fairy lights are entwined amongst the branches of the trees that encircle the grounds, spotlights illuminating the dark, hiding places snatched away. I feel trapped.

Esme hugs us both, holding me at the elbows as she takes a step back. "You're getting thinner every time I see you," she comments, actually appearing worried. I smile, a false assurance.

"I'm fine," I lie, sensing Edward watching me.

Is he worried he'll appear flawed to those around him if I told the truth? _I'm unhappy. I sometimes cry myself to sleep. But most of all, I'm scared your son no longer loves me._

I'm scared I no longer have it in me to even know what the word means.

"Edward, make sure she starts eating more. We can't have her pretty face disappearing on us," she says matter of fact.

I look up, watching him as he studies my face. His brows are drawn. "No, no we can't."

I leave them with the excuse of getting a drink, and simply start walking around the garden, eyes open but not really seeing anything. I stop at a particularly pretty plant, its petals as pink as cotton candy.

"I didn't take you as the green-fingered type."

I know that voice. It always seems to find me when I'm lonely.

Jasper smiles and hands me a drink, a slice of lemon floating on the top.

I smile weakly in thanks, not really thirsty, but not wanting to be rude. "Oh, I'm not. I just thought the colour was pretty," I say. "I'm such a cliché. A girl likes the colour pink." I laugh, shaking my head at myself.

He shares my laugh lightly. "I'd call you anything _but_ a cliché. I think there's a lot more to you than the obvious."

I turn to face him, not really knowing what to say to that. It immediately makes me think of Edward, and how he always told me I was his closed-off book.

One that he wanted to keep with him always.

My teeth find the inside of my cheek, determined not to keep thinking along the paths that end in pain, thorns ripping at the skin, exposing the hurt.

I change the subject. "How are you finding living with the soon-to-be-married couple?"

His hand finds his hair. "I swear, all Rose can think about is the wedding. And with Kate staying there too, it's like a double-attack. She's just as excited as Rose is."

I'd forgotten about Kate. "She's staying then, until the wedding?"

He nods, taking a mouthful of the amber liquid in his glass. "Yeah, seems that way."

I return his nod, watching the lemon bounce from one side of my drink to the other. "Is she here tonight? I didn't see her when I arrived."

"She was with Esme earlier," he says distractedly, his eyes flitting around the garden, before coming to a standstill. "Ah, there she is, talking with Edward."

Of course she is.

"Did you want to go say hi?" he asks, looking a little confused. I shake my head, suddenly feeling sick.

"Hey, you okay? You've gone a little pale." He places his hand on my shoulder, trying to catch my eyes.

"Just a headache," I say weakly.

He rests his hand at the small of my back as he directs me to the main patio area. His touch is all wrong, yet still comforting. "Can I get you anything?"

I go to say, _no, honestly, I'm fine, thanks,_ when Edward smiles widely at the girl opposite him, something I haven't seen him do in months. The sight is both glorious and agonizing, and I know I can't stay to watch the fireworks, because despite the thorns, nothing will be as beautiful as that. Everything will pale in comparison.

"Do you think you could maybe take me home?" I ask, trying to keep my voice under control. I don't care that I've only just got here.

"Of course," he says kindly. "Let me go grab my keys."

Relief washes over me. "You sure? You haven't had too much to drink?"

He smiles. "Definitely a cop's kid. I've had a few sips, promise." I don't remember telling him what Charlie does for a living.

"Okay." I smile gratefully, getting to my feet once he disappears into the house.

Emmett accosts me just as I reach Edward. "And where have you been hiding? I've got a surprise for you," he grins.

I smile despite the internal battle going on inside my head. "Nowhere," I reply. "I've been here."

"She's been with your future brother-in-law." Edward watches my reaction over the rim of his glass, lowering it after a couple of gulps.

I give him nothing. "I'm going home," I inform him, wrapping my arms around my middle.

"Already?" Emmett asks. "But what about your surprise?"

Edward's question registers first.

"Why?"

My eyes drift to Kate before I answer. "I'm feeling unwell." She gives me a sympathetic look, before excusing herself to go and find Rosalie. And I hate her, and want to thank her for making the most important person in my world smile when I can't. Which only makes me think I hate her more.

"Let me just go and tell the others I'm leaving for a bit so I can drop you home."

I stop his exit, my hand on his chest, pushing him back. "I have a ride. It's fine."

His attention shifts to something behind me, and I follow it, finding Jasper waiting patiently by the side of the house.

"I'll take you," he repeats again, forcefully, but I shake my head. I need the distance. I _need_ to not be around him right now, because I know if I stay, I'll break down.

But I don't say that. "You've had too much to drink." And he can't argue with that. We usually stay here, his old bedroom once our sanctuary, now just a room full of pasts; trinkets holding treasured items. The atmosphere between us has taken away everything that was special. And everything that is_ still_ special is too hard to think about. It's an endless circle of bliss and ache, potent drinks that leave you wishing you hadn't. Ever. But you still go and do it again weeks later.

"So I'll see you at home... whenever."

He doesn't give me a reply.

"I'll make sure he gets home in one piece," Em promises, giving me a mini salute. He's the one trying, when he has no reason to.

I smile weakly, before asking, "Hey, Em, what was that surprise?"

He puts his arm around my shoulders, smile in place, but eyes sad. "I bought sparklers." And so much warmth blooms for him right then, new buds opening in spring to the wonder of light, because he knows. He gets it.

I reach up on my toes and kiss his cheek, whispering a _thank you_ into his ear.

"I'll save them for the next national holiday," he winks, before leaving us both alone.

Silence, green eyes that won't leave me alone, making my head throb in time with my heartbeat. "I'll see you tomorrow," I say when I can't take any more, stepping forward. And I don't know why I do it, probably because we're in front of his family and I'm leaving, and wouldn't it be weird if I didn't kiss my husband goodbye? So I place the softest of kisses against his jaw and say, "I'd forgotten how pretty your smile is."

His body stiffens, and when I pull away, his expression is so intense, and his mouth is open, as if he's about to say something in return. But I don't stay to listen to whatever it is he may have said. Instead, I'm the one walking away.

XXX

I wake up to the sound of something smashing downstairs. Panic instantly sets in, and my hands fumble for the lamp switch. I begin to think I've imagined it when nothing follows, but then I hear muffled voices, or maybe it's just the one, but either way, there should be one here but me.

My phone is downstairs, and maybe for the first time in recent months, I wish I was still at Esme and Carlisle's. Then a loud curse resonates upstairs, and I'm no longer afraid. I'd know that lilt even in my sleep.

I make my way downstairs, slipping my arms through my cardigan as I do, wanting the comfort of something warm and familiar, like hot cocoa at the first sign of snow.

He has his head in his hands, elbows on his knees as he sits on the sofa, as still as long-standing statues.

I freeze. "Edward?"

His head snaps up, and I'm confused, and yet weirdly happy that he didn't stay... that he came home. It's obvious to see he'd had more to drink after I'd left, his eyes a little bloodshot, but he doesn't appear to be in any sort of state other than looking tired.

"You're awake."

I nod. "You woke me."

His gaze travels the length of me. "Jasper took his time getting back," he states casually, but I know underneath that tone, he means it to be everything_ but_.

"I made him coffee. Showed him the house," I shrug, looking around the floor for the evidence of a smashed vase or photo frame.

"You're lying. You're avoiding eye contact."

I stop, and look him straight in the eye. "Excuse me?"

He ignores my question, and asks another of his own. Alcohol courage. "Did you kiss him goodbye, too?"

I can't believe he's even going there. "Do you hear yourself right now?" I question, incredulity colouring my voice.

"You didn't answer my question," he replies, getting to his feet.

I press my teeth together, hard. "What do you think?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

It's like a punch to the stomach. "Well, then you'd be wrong." And I hate the way my voice breaks a little.

He looks at me for a long time without saying a word, and I think, _that's it, he'll go back to being evasive and indifferent._

And before I can stop myself, I'm asking a question of my own. A demand. "Who got your kiss at midnight?"

He wasn't expecting that. "No one," he answers me.

"You're lying," I accuse, even though I'm not sure that he is. I just want him to see how it feels. See how he made_ me_ feel.

"Was it Kate?" I wonder aloud. "She's really pretty, I'd understand."

I'm getting to him. _See, Edward, it's not nice, is it?_

"It's okay, you can admit it," I tell him calmly. "I'll forgive you."

Those three words are his limit, his breaking point.

"What? You want more lies, more hurt? Do you want me to say _yes_?" He's shouting, his tone harsh... _angry_. Full of such raw emotion. The planes of his face, his expression, they're different now from then. It's a side I didn't see until lately. At least not directed at me. He's burning inside and out, and I want to reach out and touch the flames, show him that mine match; let the wildfire spread until everything turns to smoking ash, black, billowing clouds rising to the sky.

I swallow down the tears I won't let run. My own anger. I want to inflict—more and more and _more_. He's showing me something, ugly as it is. It changes nothing. It tells me everything.

"I don't know you," I say, looking up into unyielding green. It's honest, and real, and I can't stop the words from escaping my trembling lips.

The smallest flicker of lashes, long and dark. Shock. "You choose not to. You gave up trying to a long time ago." And I guess he's being just as honest now, too, voicing what _he_ feels is sincere, only without the quivering mouth. His strength is superior to mine, defined and stable, angular mountains and high peaks.

My face scrunches, my head shakes.

No. _No!_

"I've done nothing but _try_," I respond, my own voice now just as loud as his. My hand grabs the front of my dress, fisting fabric that won't tear. It's amour I didn't anticipate.

"This isn't me." Another shake of my head—nothing's ever his fault. "I won't allow you to place this all on _me_." His feet move, invisible magnets pulling him closer, but I haven't finished. "You left this marriage all on your own."

His face hardens. "I'm still standing _here_, aren't I? I haven't gone anywhere!"

My hand finds his arm, a button on the front of his shirt. "Maybe, in person... in touch," I say as my hand rises. "But not here," I profess, my palm now flat against his chest, above where his heart beats, "and that's the most important part."

He swallows heavily, and I want to stop, shut up... not drive him further away. But _my_ breaking point is fast approaching, a speeding car without any brakes.

"Without _this_," I press harder, "you being here is nothing. _Nothing_."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?"

Another flicker. "No."

I take a step back, arms once again at my sides. "You act as if I'm not even here half the time. You barely even touch me."

His lips curve at the corners, but the smile isn't one of amusement. He's being serious. "Oh, you couldn't be more wrong if you tried. I _know_ you're here. Always."

A bitter laugh. "So I'm imagining it all? My head is making all this up? I have no reason to be saying any of this?"

He breaks eye contact, his head turning to the side, jaw taut. He's closing down on me, shutting the door in my face.

"Answer me."

His gaze returns, but he says nothing... at least not in words. My face is suddenly between his palms, so close to his own. His fingers are electric to my skin, the sensation both terrifying and calming.

His lips barely touch my own, whispers and ghosting feathers. "Is this what you want? Is this enough _touching_ for you?" There's no lust in his voice, no adoration.

This isn't Edward... _my_ Edward. Or maybe it is. Maybe this is all he now has left to give, which makes my chest constrict in the worst of ways. I thought I'd be relieved at the smallest bit of contact, but not this... not _this_. He's doing this because he thinks it's what I want; he's trying to prove something to me, but that's not what any of this is about.

I want him to kiss me because he truly wants to, because he needs to, because he loves me... loves _us_, and feels that draw that made us the happiest of couples—that made us the best versions of ourselves.

My hands are shaking as I bring them up to cover his. "Not like this. It's cruel. You're being cruel."

His expression shifts again, his look shattering. The slightest of pressure against my mouth, and then: "I don't know you anymore either."

He walks away, and this time I know I've lost him. I just don't know for how long. Forever is unthinkable.

We used to smile more. We used to laugh. We used to be one.

Now... now we're struggling to find our way, lost in overcrowded forests, no visible gaps between the trees.

We've become trapped in our very own forgotten garden.

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**Thank you so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	6. Where Does The Good Go

**Hey everyone! Thanks so much for all your messages and alerts. I read and appreciate each and every one.**

**Huge thanks to my beta Susan who puts up with me for hours and makes me laugh so much. And to Judy for pre-reading and being her usual lovely self.**

**I'm incredibly luck to have them both.**

**Thanks to Kennedy Nicole for not only rec'ing this story, but for rec'ing me great stories in return—she's a sweetheart. And to Kitty for cracking me up with the new nickname "Red Dress Kate Bitch" for Kate. **

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

When I was little, my mom would read me bedtime stories, her soothing voice eventually lulling me to sleep. The stories were always from my favourite books: princesses in locked towers, beauties in danger from wicked queens.

I never got scared, never became worried—a prince would always save them.

Nevertheless, I'd listen, riveted, as she sat in the rocking chair that had once belonged to Grandma Swan, a chair she'd tried to get rid of many times—years before I was born—to no avail. Then she found out she was pregnant, with me, and Dad would find her rocking back and forth with her hand protecting her belly, lips moving with silent words. She said the rocking motion had calmed us both.

The removal of the chair soon became forgotten.

One night, she gave me a speech about independence. I hadn't really understood it at the time, but I nodded along, wanting so much to show her I was grown-up, that I could talk about these things with her.

"Don't always wait for a man, Bella," she said. "Sometimes a woman has no alternative but to save herself."

I didn't disagree with her, even if I did think it was silly. Hadn't she just heard the same words I had? So I once again nodded along and held out my hand, catching the kiss she blew me every night from the doorway before repeating the action back.

That night I slept with 'Sleeping Beauty' clutched to my chest and dreamed of happily ever afters.

I now understood what she'd meant.

And the books... they'd been thrown out years ago.

XXX

I watch night give way to dawn, stars replaced with muted orange and diluted purple. My eyes sting, lids still refusing to close—I haven't moved from where Edward left me last night.

My back aches from lying on the sofa, but I don't care. It's a distraction... something else to think over instead of almost kisses and _I don't know yous._

He's always found me hard to read, that's why he always uses his eyes instead of talking. He used to trace my skin with his fingertips, invisible words drawn on arms and hands and face. That way he'd always have a part of me.

But memory fades, and words that were invisible in the first place, are impossible to find again.

I hold out my arm, trying to see what he saw, what he wrote. There's nothing there but pale skin.

I shift, ever so slightly, and the ache in my black flares. I momentarily linger on the pain... the distraction.

But I should realise by now, that even these types of diversions eventually lead me back to Edward.

**~CitP~**

"What are you doing?" he asks against my shoulder. His breath tickles my skin, causing me to shiver. I feel his smile against the back of my neck.

"What does it look like, Einstein?" I tease, holding up one of his shirts.

"Umm... stealing my things?" he teases right back.

I laugh. "Well, if you'd rather wash your own clothing from now on..." I step away from the washer, leaving his wet shirt in the basket.

"Let's not be hasty," he smirks, moving quickly to trap me against the machine, arms on either side of me. "I never said I _minded_ you taking my things."

I roll my eyes. "Lucky me, then." I bite my lip, watching his eyes dip to my mouth.

He makes some humming noise in agreement, stepping closer until his chest brushes mine.

"No, really, I think it's about time you learnt—"

And I'm silenced, his lips pressed tightly to my own.

His fingers frame my face, tenderly stroking my cheeks, such a comparison to the way his mouth is moving. I grip his arms for support, losing myself.

"I love you," he whispers, his eyes so earnest and bright. I want him to look at me like this always.

"I know," I tell him, trailing my fingers across his jaw to this throat. Now it's his turn to tremble.

"You don't love me?" he questions, and I go to smile, thinking he's joking, but he isn't, and it makes me pause. He's being serious.

I've told him so many times. Haven't I?

I reach up to wind my arms around his neck, trying to bring myself eye-level. "Always," I say shakily, playing with his hair. "Sometimes so much it hurts."

He studies my face. "I don't want you to hurt."

This time I do smile. "If it didn't, it wouldn't be worth it."

And I'm once again met with his mouth as he lifts me up and carries me somewhere else. I don't open my eyes. I don't care where he takes me. As long as I'm with him, I'm happy.

My back meets the sofa as he settles himself over me, and I keep my legs wrapped around him, pulling him in closer, unwilling to let him go. He moans into my mouth, hands teasing me under my shirt, which soon gets pulled off me.

His mouth descends, _lips _and _wet _and _too much._ My breath is so loud to my own ears, and embarrassment creeps in, but then his tongue makes me gasp and suddenly I don't care anymore.

My chest is rising and falling so, so fast as his mouth comes back to me, lips brushing my collarbone. He pauses at the corner of my mouth, teasing me with fleeting touches.

"The very first time I saw you," he voices, biting at my lip, "I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. You knocked the breath straight out of me." And I want to tell him that he still does that to me with a single glance.

He looks so much like the boy I fell in love with in this moment—scared, intense and passionate about the things he loves.

He_ is_ the boy I fell in love with.

My heart feels weak against the surge of adoration I feel for him, and emotions that are _meant_ to overwhelm, threaten to pull me under. I want to say all these thoughts to him, so he doesn't always have to wonder and search so hard to find them, but when I open my mouth, it's as useless as trying to speak under water.

So instead I show him. I place his palm over my heart, letting him feel how fast it's beating for him, _always_ for him, and as the rest of our clothing falls away, I trace _my_ fingers over _his_ skin—back, arms and face.

And when he fills me, I stop. I don't have to trace the words, because surely he can see everything I'm feeling in my eyes?

I don't look away until I arch and fall apart beneath him.

**~CitP~**

The sound of the door closing snatches away my memories, puffs of smoke left behind from a wish granted. Or in my case, never made.

My heart is beating just as fast as it was back then—I push the blanket from my legs, and run, throwing the door open to stand on the steps in bare feet. He's already in his car, hands gripping the wheel as he stares ahead through the glass to where I'm standing.

Then I immediately pause.

We took this car to his parents last night. There's no way Emmett could have driven this back and walked all that way at that time in the morning. Someone else was with them. Someone else was driving _his_ car.

I go to take a step forward and the engine starts, as if he was waiting for me to make that _very_ move just to pull further away again.

I don't take any more steps after that. I won't play this game.

He carries on watching me, waiting for... _something_, and I want to reach down, grab a handful of gravel and throw it at his car until cracks appear in the glass.

But neither of us makes a move.

My legs are bare and I don't care if anyone can see me right now. I push my hair from my face and hold it all in one hand over my shoulder—I don't want anything to break this stare down.

The engine still runs and I want to write messages on his windshield, so that when he eventually drives off—which I know he will—he'll still see _me_.

That's when I feel the first drops of rain against my skin.

Inside... inside I want to laugh—laugh until I cry—and I look up to the heavens with the fake tears of rain present against my cheeks as it continues to pelt against my face.

The downpour is almost a warning, a scoff at a stupid idea. It's only then I notice that the engine is no longer running.

I let go of my hair and simply stand there, defeated.

And here we go again.

My eyes squeeze shut, lashes thick with rain, and I turn my head to the side, the first to break this stupid, stupid battle of wills—this stupid battle of the heart that should have been conquered a long time ago. It wouldn't have mattered who came through triumphant, we both would have been winners.

A door opens. "Go inside, Bella." And I almost think he cares.

I don't say anything, I don't look back, I simply close the door behind me and sink to the ground.

I don't know how long I sit like this, but I'm cold, icy shards pulsing through my veins, under my skin, sharp and painful. I look to my hands—everything is pink where I expect to see blue.

My breath hitches, choking gasps, desperate..._afraid, _and I exhale quickly, trying to push my thoughts from my mind, but they refuse to budge, like visible mist hovering above land on a lifeless morning.

Everything is numb, frozen fingers on winter days—the only person who can take this feeling away is the same person who caused it.

I look to the stairs, hearing nothing; silence that coheres to my skin. My eyes close, my fingers cling.

I'm waiting for a sun that won't emerge.

The storm continues.

XXX

I eventually move to shower and change, and as I flip through the clothes on the rails, I'm reminded of days where I'd worn them: a yellow sundress for a Fourth of July picnic, a green skirt that has a little tear at the bottom after catching in on barbed wire, a blue sweater that Grandma had knitted for me a few Christmases back.

I carry on going, pushing through item after item, nothing good enough. Then I stop at a once-favourite plaid shirt that doesn't belong to me, but is hung amongst _my_ clothes. I don't remember putting it there.

The cotton is still soft between my fingers, and I instantly reach for it, not caring about trousers or anything else. Underwear and fluffy socks, and now _this_ shirt, is all I need. I have to roll up the sleeves as they're a little too long, and the hem reaches just above my knees, but I finally feel like I can breathe.

I crawl into our bed, and instead of stopping, I move that little bit further until I'm on Edward's side, my head safely on his pillow.

Only then do I sleep.

XXX

The TV is playing back some movie, but I don't register who the actors are or what they're saying. It's just background noise. My eyes keep drifting to the clock, panic settling in my chest every time I see that the hands have moved. Every _tick_ creates a pang that ends just as quickly until the next one begins.

Edward still isn't home, and I start to wonder if he's even coming back at all. He left as soon as light fell, and now darkness has resurfaced, and there's still no sign of him.

I know he's probably at his parents, enjoying the meal Esme has cooked to celebrate the start of a new year, like she does every year—another excuse to do what she does best. But the worry won't dissipate, condensation left to cloud the windows and the views beyond.

They'll share family stories and then rattle off aspects of _his_ life that I only ever got to hear from his parents—I hate that outsiders will be hearing parts I'll probably never get the chance to find out about now.

_Celebrate the start of a new year._

I begin to think that maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. I look around me at the empty room that screams of a couple that has shared so much—pictures with smiling faces that no longer match the ones we wear—and wonder, if I was somebody looking through the window of this home, detached from the situation, where would I think the boy with the green eyes and messy hair was now—where the man who now dresses in smart suits has disappeared to?

And lastly, why does the girl with the big, brown eyes who tries to hide from the camera, no longer laugh like she does in all those pictures?

Headlights blare through the very same window, blinding everything they touch. I take a deep breath, and close my eyes, relief settling through me, deep into my bones. I mute the TV and simply wait.

I hear him before I see him, and turn my head ever so slightly so I can be sure I'm not imagining things. I don't want to be the first one to speak, not after last night or this morning, but I push it down. _Next time_, I tell myself.

I go to ask where he's been, even though I can guess, but then I stop, spotting something on his face that shouldn't be there. It's not on the places you'd expect, the places you see in movie after movie: shirt collars and lips. No, it's somewhere completely innocent. The sight tarnishes his face—it takes away any innocence that may have still been there.

His keys jingle in his pocket, tinny tunes ringing through the house, giving music to a room that never used to need it.

He stops at the arm of the chair, his hand worrying through the strands of his hair before pulling it away again to make more music. I can't look away, despite how much I want to.

He sits, and finally looks at me, curled up on the cushions as I physically hold myself together; arms around knees that rest just below my chin. His expression is unnerving.

"You have lipstick on your cheek," I point out, gaze moving from red smudges to green calm. I don't let him go; I don't look away. I feel like I'm sinking, damaged ships and sand that holds, swallowing me until there's no way back.

_I_ don't wear red. I _know_ who wears red.

His lips part. "It's nothing," he replies. He's wrong; it's everything.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping for blood. _More red_. And then a thought occurs to me. Everything thumps and I feel too much. "Did you want me to see it?"

His breath holds, his mouth closes, his chest expands. Seconds pass. "I didn't even know it was there." And I think he's lying.

He doesn't try to prove he's not though; he simply stares back as I continue to find what I'm searching for. _Guilt_. But I don't know what that looks like anymore, a result of too much silence, too many half-truths: they've confused everything we used to understand about the other.

Falsehood became jumbled... pretty on the outside and meant to placate; colourful flowers in the brightest glass vases.

Lines muddled over time, and sense became lost:_ silence means there's nothing wrong. Words... words__ are the part that hurt. Just say nothing—it's better that way. Then no one will know. Most of all, each other._

But glass shatters, and those flowers will fall, rainbows painted across the carpet.

A montage of broken dreams.

Reality eventually has to tumble out. And when it does, it's hard to know just how much damage will be left behind.

"Have you found what you're looking for?" he asks after a while, his voice low and steady. He knew exactly what I was doing. Maybe he can_ finally_ read me. But no, because if he could, none of this would be happening in the first place.

I blink heavily, fighting the urge to close my eyes and escape from what I'm about to say. "I thought I had," I answer, meeting his gaze, trying so hard to be brave. I take a deep breath that hurts my chest. "But now I'm not so sure."

And I don't know if he gets the implication, but either way, I'm lying. I want him.

I think I'll always want him, even if sometimes I think I don't like him anymore.

He licks his bottom lip, his focus now on a spot behind my head. "Perhaps you just didn't look hard enough," he says, appearing casual. Bulletproof.

I shake my head. "No, I did."

He doesn't pause this time. "Then what's changed?"

I can't hold it back either. "You."

He looks at me for what feels like minutes. "Does it make it better to think that?"

My vision threatens to blur, scenes painted in watercolour—and still just as beautiful in its hazy imperfection.

"Yes," I whisper, not having the strength to both fight _him_ and hold these tears at bay.

He looks troubled, and I want to crawl into his lap and grab his face in my hands, ask him to just _tell_ me. But there's not enough time for that, as he's already speaking. "Then I'm sorry I've been such a disappointment to you."

Pain licks at my senses like the flame of a candle, and I want to scream _no, you've been the best... and the worst_, _and it's all still here_, _if you want it._

He stands in front of the mirror above the mantle, inspecting his face with drawn brows.

"The lipstick," he breathes, and I tense, waiting for _her _name. "It's my mom's. It's just my mom's, Bella."

And I swear his voice shakes, but I can't be certain, because my face is pressed against my bare knees as my own mother's voice races through my head.

_Sometimes a woman has no alternative but to save herself._

It's then that I finally let my tears build, then fall, just like our life so far.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL XX**


	7. Holding A Heart

**Hey everyone! Thank you so much for all your kind words. It means a lot.**

**And as always, a huge thanks to Susan and Judy for all their help. They're amazing.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

The clouds roll apart, the sun emerging from behind, highlighting the water with silver streaks that glisten and blind. I could sit and stare for hours, lost in metallics that coat my skin if I squint my eyes _just right_ and reach out into the distance, fingers dipping into the ocean, paint falling from the tips.

I watch as a horde of young boys pass a ball amongst each other on the sand, making the most of the free days before school starts once more; late nights, early mornings and forgotten homework that lies unfinished on the kitchen table next to a bowl of half-eaten cereal.

I glance down at my watch, a nervous twitch that has become apparent in the last ten minutes. I'm starting to regret my decision of agreeing to meet him here for lunch, at _my_ bench; doubt creeping up on me like shadows.

Jasper had phoned the bookstore earlier this morning, insisting I still owed him a lunch date, and I'd found myself saying _yes, I'm free_, without much hesitation.

But now I'm worrying that this spot of mine will no longer be just that, _mine_, which is ridiculous considering the amount of people passing by at continued and random intervals.

My same sandwich, same pastry, and same drink sit beside me on my bench as I take yet another look at my watch. _He's late. _Perhaps he's changed his mind?

And as soon as those thoughts appear, brown shoes fill my vision, my gaze having drifted to, and lingered on, a gum wrapper bustling about on the ground.

"Sorry I'm late," comes the slightly breathless voice from above me.

I look up and shake my head. No apology needed. "It's fine, honestly," I assure as I pull my lunch closer so he has enough room to sit.

He looks out to the water, hand shielding his eyes from the light. "Pretty," he comments.

I nod, wholeheartedly agreeing. "Yeah."

"So," he says as he lowers himself to the bench, dressed casually in slightly worn-out jeans and a blue v-neck sweater, "I missed you New Year's Day. Edward said you hadn't been feeling well."

That night plays back through my head, and I swallow thickly, picking up my coffee so my hands have something to do. "That's right," I echo, the admission no longer entirely a lie; it had turned out that way in the end.

_Red marks on cheeks._

Yes, I had definitely felt unwell.

He watches me over the plastic of his coffee cup. "And you're okay now?" he questions.

I suck in a deep breath, linking the fingers of both my hands.

_No._

"Yes."

He looks like he doesn't quite believe me, but nevertheless grants me a smile that doesn't altogether reach his eyes. "Good," he nods.

"How are things at Em's?" I ask, eager to change the subject as I rip a corner of pastry from my almond slice.

He rolls his eyes. "Busy," he says as he finishes his coffee. "At least everyone else is busy. To be honest, I feel like I'm in the way most of the time."

I shake my head. "I'm sure Rose and Em appreciate you being here. Especially Rose," I add. "I mean, who doesn't ever need their big brother?" I offer, taking a sip of my now mostly-cold coffee.

A smile lights up his features, this one reaching his eyes. "I hope so," he agrees, shifting a little. "I think... because I'm so used to being busy all the time—whether it's meeting clients or sketching up new designs—it simply feels weird to sort of sit on the sidelines, waiting for someone else to direct me. I'm not used to it, I guess."

I bring my whole pastry up to my mouth. "With Esme involved in this wedding, you'll have your hands full soon enough, trust me."

He laughs. "Was she as hands-on at your wedding?" he questions, his hand cupping the side of his neck as he slides his palm back and forth across the muscles there.

I chew slowly, suddenly losing my appetite. "No," I answer, focusing on the birds skimming the water.

"Oh."

He takes a bite of his sandwich, and I can see the questions gazing back at me... along with the filling threatening to spill from the sides of his sandwich.

A giggle slips through my lips. "You may want to do something about that," I say, pointing at what looks to be crabmeat smothered in mayonnaise as it continues to overflow from the crusts.

His sandwich gets lifted up in the air so he can take a look, which is completely the wrong thing to do. He ends up losing a good amount of the filling to his shirt. "Shit," he mumbles, looking helpless as his eyes dart about for something he hasn't foreseen to pick up from the deli—a napkin. Luckily, I always take more than I need, or rather, should.

I reach into my bag and without thinking, wipe the mess from his shirt, just as I have with Edward so many times in the past, a natural habit that seems to have stuck regardless of the recipient. But then I look at his hand squeezing his leg mid-thigh, at my own fingers that are pressed against his chest, and realise that both of us have stopped speaking, a mist of silence lingering.

I can feel him looking down at me, feel his breath as it hits the top of my head, and I'm suddenly far too close for comfort. My hands leave him quickly, and I instantly feel stupid for drawing more attention to the awkwardness.

I refuse to meet his eyes as I smooth my hands down my skirt, attempting to remove invisible wrinkles as his palm shoots out, halting my fidgeting, his touch warm and wrong, and yet part of me still relishing in that tiny bit of contact.

It's been so long since someone did something as simple as hold my hand.

"Bella?" he murmurs, drawing my attention towards him, lashes flickering as I try to divert my stare away from his expression. His gaze flits between my eyes and mouth, and I'm floundering in grey. "It's okay."

_And no... No, it's not._

"I need to get back to work," I whisper, interrupting him as I slide my hand out from underneath his.

His hand finds his hair, frustrated as he surveys my face. A deep breath and sigh follows. "Okay, thanks for lunch."

And I pretend that this sudden weirdness doesn't exist. "You, too. Thanks for asking me."

He goes to stand, but I wave him off, taking one last peek at his face before heading for the bookstore.

XXX

A few customers come in to browse, parents scolding their children as they reach out with fingers sticky from candy, asking for _this_ book, and _that_ book, and _please Daddy, please_ while jumping up and down on little legs.

Some get what they want, while others begin crying, mothers forever shushing as they give apologetic smiles and pull them from the store.

I wonder if I was ever like that when I wasn't allowed the book I wanted at such a young age; whether I was dragged away kicking and screaming with that passion only children seem to own.

The thought makes me smile.

The day continues to pass, the store now empty apart from two teenagers who whisper to each other in the aisles, smiling and holding hands as the girl looks on with eyes that adore.

And I know that expression all too well.

**~CitP~**

"I never thought I'd be complaining about it being too hot in Forks," I say as I lift my arms into the air and lean back from my perch on Edward's bed until I'm flat out on cool cotton.

He doesn't respond and I stare up at the ceiling, following the pattern in the plaster that circles around his light. He's become quiet again; he's been like this on and off all day and I frown, wondering if he'd rather I just go home.

He'd been waiting for me after my shift at Newton's again, the third time this week, and we automatically ended up at his house.

Emmett had been on his way out when we arrived, pausing to tease Edward about something I couldn't catch. Whatever it was, it had turned the tips of Edward's ears red.

I turn my head to the side and find him staring at me, eyes lingering on my bare legs in my shorts. I quickly look away before he notices, feeling even warmer.

_I bet I look stupid. I should have worn my jeans._

The bed dips and his words cause me to laugh. "You look like a starfish."

I raise a brow. "You're just jealous you didn't think of this first," I tell him, stretching my arms further out at the sides, before moving them up and down. "It's so much cooler like this."

He smirks. "And now you look like a bird."

I immediately sit up and push my hair from my face—hands that aren't my own suddenly help me.

I blush, flustered, too nervous to look at his face. And then my fingers catch his and we both freeze for just a second, that awkward silence hovering once again.

He's so close, and I swear I'm going to pass out if he doesn't say something.

I hesitantly look up and lightning instantly starts running through my veins, electrifying and frightening, his gaze causing sparks that explode in green. Then his fingers move from mine to brush across my cheek, and I can't help but tremble.

I'm suddenly thunder. I'm too much feeling. And it feels like I'm falling, but I'm not afraid, because his arms are around me and they're the only ones I want catching me anyway.

"Bella?" he breathes, pulling me to him. And with that _one_ word spoken exactly like _that_, he's stolen my heart for good, and there's no way of getting it back: I wouldn't want it now anyway.

I know he'll keep it safe, keep it his, because there's no way this feeling can be one-sided. But if I'm wrong, and he changes his mind, I still wouldn't ask for its return. I'd set it free with weightless wings and let it remember all the good, all the happy—perfect moments exactly like this one right here. Because if I didn't, it would break inside my chest: split in two, one side mine, the other his. And there's no way a heart can survive that kind of split.

His thumb touches my lip, and the way he's looking at me right now, like I'm the only one... I know there's no way_ I_ could survive it either.

He leans forward, slowly, until his lips touch mine for the very first time.

And I suddenly forget how to breathe.

Time suspends and I feel dizzy, as if the room is spinning around us. His mouth is soft and warm and I can't help wondering why we didn't do this sooner, because nothing could feel this good, I'm sure of it_._

He pulls back just a little, staring at my mouth as I shiver, lips red from mine. "Are you okay?" he whispers, all light cotton.

My eyes find _his_ mouth this time, watching his lips move as he speaks. "Yeah," I breathe, nodding dumbly.

Crooked smiles just for me. "Good."

His mouth is back, and I didn't realise how much I could miss something after being without it for mere seconds. And so when his hands get tangled in my hair, and his mouth opens, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself even closer, the mattress groaning as we fall back and ignore the outside world, making our very own shapes.

**~CitP~**

I blink back the memories as dust motes float in the beams of light filtering through the once again empty store.

To anyone else viewing that memory, I would have simply been kissing a boy, and he would have just been kissing a girl, and wasn't it easy, free, and uncomplicated?

They would have told me there would be other kisses, from other boys just as special, but they'd have been wrong. I didn't want to kiss anyone else. I remember the way my heart thudded so fast, and how I didn't care if I was naive in thinking it would only beat along with him... _for_ him. I didn't want to think about it ending or finding someone else. Otherwise, what would have been the point in sharing any of it in the first place?

Moments like those are special for a reason. They're bright beginnings filled with chocolate kisses and days on the beach.

No, he was the only one for me. And in all the ways I can think of, he still is, even if those ways no longer seem to work or make sense.

I'm not sure he agrees though.

I look at the clock and make a decision, keys appearing in my hand as signs get twisted to _closed_; as doors get locked behind me, the ringing of the bell final.

XXX

His office is in a good-sized building on the opposite end of town, a too-large parking lot dominating the space out front. I instantly spot Edward's car, my gaze drifting to the few others before I carry on.

I pull the glass door towards me and step inside, the smell of new paint heavy, the atmosphere becoming all the more uncomfortable when I see that Heidi isn't stationed at the reception desk with her smiles that ease some of the tension I feel from this place. The desk is empty.

I blame his time spent here, working for these people, more than I should; which in a way is silly, because he's in control of his life, no one else. He was so eager to impress, hours becoming longer, occasionally spreading to his time outside of this building, paperwork and files being brought home with him. And Carlisle would encourage him, constant talk about promotions and trust, while I would beg him to stop, to keep it separate.

It would seem his father is still winning.

I think about waiting until Heidi returns to her desk, but the truth is, I feel too on edge to stand here and wait. So I head on down the long, L shaped corridor, passing a couple of other offices on the way, gazing at the framed photos, articles and awards that line the beige coloured walls. Fresh flowers are brightening the sill of a window as I turn down the final stretch of carpet that leads to Edward's office, tucked away at the end of the 'L'.

His name is engraved in a bronze metal, a plate attached to the door. I run my fingers over the markings before knocking softly—an action no more than a brush of knuckles against wood—and push down the handle, feet unsure as I walk inside.

The sight that greets me is one that makes me wish I hadn't come.

It's all innocent enough, both sitting on opposite sides of the desk as the sound of my entrance causes them both to turn their heads.

Edward stays leaning forward, pen in his hand, as Kate does the opposite and leans backwards into her seat.

I can't decide which action would look guilty if something had happened here that shouldn't have.

A silence falls across the room.

"I didn't realise anyone else was in here," I say, looking between the two of them. "I'm sorry, I'll go."

"No, we're finished anyway," Kate assures me with a red-lipped smile as she gets to her feet. "Stay."

I want to both laugh and cry that she's the one taking charge here and giving me permission to stay in a room that is more mine than it ever will be hers.

Kate begins to talk quietly to Edward as I walk around the room, the feel of his gaze burning from time to time.

My head is so full; it feels like it's going to explode. And I don't know how much more I can take before that final _enough_, _stop, no more_ hits us both; before there's no going back and we arrive at that one-way only street.

I pause at a picture of the two of us that I don't remember putting here when I helped him add little touches to this room, and turn back around, unable to stare at those faces.

But I don't know which image is more painful, as Kate is smiling brightly, and Edward is focusing all of his attention on that smile.

My smiles are lost, hidden in bags of marbles that belong to previous years.

I want to shout out, ask her why she's here—she's been in town for no more than a couple of months, why would she need legal advice? She doesn't even _live_ in this state.

Insecurities build at a rapid pace, brick after brick until it towers past my head. I start looking at her for answers that I know I won't find.

Talking is over, and a silence has settled once more. I make my way back to the desk, and stare down at the hand that briefly touches my arm when I get there.

"We should meet up for that lunch soon," Kate suggests, pushing her dark hair off her shoulders. "I know that Rose and Jasper still want to."

I can see Edward writing from the corner of my eye. He takes breaks in-between to raise his eyes towards us with his head still bent, and I start smoothing down my skirt, which I figure is another nervous twitch as I think about this morning. "I already had lunch with Jasper today."

The scratch of pen on paper stops.

"Really? That's great. Well, next time, it will have to be just us girls."

I nod even though I can't think of anything worse than sitting around another table with someone who is_ everything_ I'm currently not.

Another squeeze of my arm and she leaves us alone, the door clicking softly behind her.

"I didn't know Kate was going to be here today. You never mentioned it." I don't know why this is the first thing I say, or why I even mention it; he doesn't talk to me about _anything_ anymore.

Edward studies my face, finger tracing his bottom lip with his elbows bent on the desk. "I wasn't expecting you."

And I shoot back. "I didn't know I had to make an appointment."

He gets to his feet, suddenly organizing pages. "That's not what I meant."

And everything I came here to talk about gets thrown onto the bonfire. Something is crawling all over my skin and I have to know.

"Do you like her?"

He pauses, hands stilling on the sheets of paper that line his desk in a tidy formation. "What do you mean?"

I hesitate for a few seconds, but don't alter my words. "Do you _like_ her?"

His eyes fasten to mine and I_ know_ he knows what I'm asking. I see it hit and spark like fireworks.

He gives a shrug, something non-committal and casual, neither one nor the other. It's _too _easy. "She's a client. A friend of the family."

I think about this, and _no_... no. "She's not a friend of mine, and I'm your family," I say, watching him as he pauses once more; his expression cuts through everything else, expectant and interested. "She's Rosalie's friend, and Rosalie isn't quite family._ Soon_... but not _yet_." I don't add that I doubt Rosalie will ever be family to_ me_.

His palms are flat on his desk now, body leaning forward ever so slightly as he waits and watches me with that intensity that used to make me flush all over—and if he's blinking, I'm missing it.

"So, no, she's definitely not a_ friend_, Edward," I finish.

He stands up straight, tie crooked, and I can't look away, the need to fix it, to make it perfect—to pull until it chokes—all consuming. I look back into green and want to hate him. Hating him would be _so_ much easier.

"I don't know what else to tell you then," is his reply.

And he's a _coward_.

I let his words flitter between us, kites shifting from side to side in the breeze, eyes glued to diamond shapes that in a different place, in a different situation and happier environment, would explain and cover for the silence. But it's a bullshit answer.

It's not enough.

My voice sounds too loud, too desperate. "And that still doesn't answer my first question."

His jaw clenches and relaxes over and over, like a song on repeat. He studies my face; eyes and lips and cheeks lavished with attention. "What's this really about?" he asks, eyes narrowing, chilling me inside and out, angry black brush-strokes on a blank canvas.

A deep breath, a pause. An answer. "I think you know," I push out.

Another clench of his jaw, an instrument tuned to my voice, to my words. "You don't trust me." And _this_ isn't a question.

I push my tongue up to the roof of my mouth, trying to keep the spite from escaping, but maybe it's true. I don't know, I simply don't know. And that's the problem. "No, I don't think I do anymore."

Nothing. He says nothing. I take a step forward, as if this will somehow enable his thoughts to mesh with mine; fish caught in nets, entangled, easy to latch on to.

_Why won't you just talk to me?_

My mouth opens, lips now parted with anger and pain. "When did you become so heartless?"

He's closer, but still distant, and I have to look up a little more. He speaks; voice sure and confident—he's in control of this avalanche that threatens to smother us both in white ice.

"About the same time you did," he tells me.

I flinch, his words a _stab, stab, stab_. My face feels broken, cracked china in display cabinets for all to see. I raise my voice. "I have so much heart," and I'm gripping onto my sweater so hard with both hands balled into fists. "I wouldn't still _be here_ otherwise."

His stomach pulls in beneath his shirt, long breaths held before words are released in one harsh and heavy swoop. "When are you going to stop painting me as the bad guy in all this?" he demands, gaze unyielding, anchors dropped to depths of hazy grey and murky blue.

My words are whispers, second-hand thoughts that I'm not sure I want to keep; so I let them go. "You can't paint someone to be who they're not."

And no hesitation—comments backed with fire. "Well then they have obviously never met _you_."

I shake my head, dismissing his words as more lies. "I'm not like that," I answer.

More deep breaths and, "You see what you want to see, and that's it," he says.

"And you don't?" Neither of us should be speaking like this, _here_, and I'm grateful his office is broken off from the others. It's bad enough watching something you once loved fall apart, but having others view it while it happens is another story altogether.

One of those sheets of paper that line his desk gets crumpled under his palm as it fists. I hope it was important.

His next words bring so much anger that I want to forget that this is his place of work—I want to scream. "You're clueless to anything other than yourself," he tells me, as if this is his big playing-hand in a game of cards. A full house.

And that right there just shows me how much he doesn't know me. It makes me think he never did.

_No... he knew me. He loved me._

I look up into his eyes, breathe in, and hold it.

_He's just trying to hurt me._

"You have no idea how hard it is to be married to someone who keeps everything locked away in here," and I'm pointing to my head, finger against temple.

He smiles, head turning away as he lets out this little bitter laugh that I hate the sound of. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea."

And I'm suddenly copying that exact sound I hate. "That's right, I'd forgotten—I shouldn't say anything. You're the perfect husband and I should be thankful you worked so hard—that day after day, month after month, I would get ignored and pushed aside for complete strangers."

He looks incredulous, hands dragging through his hair. "I was working! All those long hours were for _you, _for_ us_."

It's a cop out.

"And now?" I wonder aloud, twisting the ends of my sleeves with my fingers. "Who are they for now, Edward? Because they're not for me, they never have been. I _hate _them."

Anger, present as day on his face again. "You're being ridiculous."

"Why, have I left something out?" I ask him, sarcasm colouring my voice. "Maybe the part about you being the perfect son, too?"

Quick as a click of the fingers. "Don't bring my parents into this."

"Why? You do," I argue, watching as his left hand runs up his right forearm. "Every time that front door slams shut, and you disappear for hours, that's _you_ doing exactly what you just asked me not to."

His jaw flexes as another sheet of paper feels the brunt of his chagrin. "You know, this blame game is getting really old, really fast."

"Well then do something about it!" I return, so tired of being the only one who cares.

I've hit a nerve, pushed too many buttons.

"It's not just me!" He's shouting now, pain radiating towards the sky. "You're in this marriage too!"

And I didn't realise we still had one.

My chest constricts with this image of him—I'm blinded by a broken and angry man.

There are so many things I should ask him right now while he's not in control of himself, but only one question seems to be important. Or, at least, demanding in the pit of others.

I can feel the tell-tale burning in my eyes, as words escape without yet full permission.

"Do you love me at all?" I ask, silent tracks on the brink of forming down my cheeks. A mix of anger and regret.

His eyes are full, shining like dew on the greenest grass—beauty in temperatures that begin to freeze.

He stares, but doesn't answer. And I'm crushed like dried leaves under foot, scattering in autumn colours.

The phone on his desk abruptly starts to ring, loud and harsh in the following silence of his non-declaration, startling us both, but he doesn't answer it. A light soon flashes, a call waiting, but still nothing. His eyes find the clock, lids squeezing shut as he rakes his hands through his hair. "I have a meeting to get to in a few minutes." And he's trying to calm himself down. "I'll see you at home."

Home..._ he_ used to be my home.

"I won't be there."

The words surprise me just as much as they do him. His head snaps up, and here it is. Here it is.

"What do you mean, _you won't be there_?" His eyes are wide and holding me in place, rooting me to the ground. Is he panicked? Does he care? Do I?

I lick my lips, stalling, waiting for _courage_ to appear. "I'm not going home," I tell him, voice shaky.

Tears want to fall—I'm choking on my own grief.

And I can't stop talking like this now that I've started.

"I can't do this anymore," I say hoarsely, taking a step back towards the door. "I can't look at you every day and _feel_ what I'm _feeling_. I can't, I can't, I can't."

What am I saying? Inside... inside I'm screaming. Cords are being snapped, ties broken. I want to reach out and grab them, hold on to those strings until they cut into my skin and leave angry, fuchsia marks. _Keep trying_. But it's useless, and they're falling away one by one, torn ribbons fraying at the slash-point. And it's too much. It's all too much.

The room morphs to a bubble as my vision continues to blur with the storm of tears that pool and threaten to spill—overflowing wells that can hold no more. And my chest hurts as I breathe, panic seizing me, an intricate web of terror.

I look at his face and know all too well what I'm _really_ saying, what I'm really _doing_ and _why _I'm doing it. Can't he see? _Please see_. Edward, _look_, hold—desire your own angry, pink scars.

He walks around to the other side of the desk, a sudden flurry of movement, cutting out the island that has been between us. But just as quickly stops. He doesn't move any further than that. And it hurts.

_Won't you even try? _

"Where are you going?" he asks me, voice low and calm now. Is he relieved?

_I'm drowning._

My throat feels too tight, but I speak clearly enough. "My parents'."

He turns away, focusing on anything that isn't me. The phone rings again: it gets ignored for a second time. A full two minutes must pass. "Won't you get lonely?"

_And that's all he has to ask me? _

These renewed bouts of fighting... they would suggest that passion is still here somewhere. But lines get muddled. The fight _for _has left, and just left us with the _fight_.

It's a sign that there is nothing left.

His voice is impossibly soft, yet still distant—he's my never-ending puzzle that will plague me for hours after the previous attempt.

Someone knocks on the door, and we both know time has run out. I back up until I feel the handle beneath my palm, gripping the cool metal as I answer him.

"Maybe," I shrug, a sad, watery smile forming. "But then... I don't think anything could feel as lonely as standing here in front of you like this, watching as you do nothing."

Blank stares are all I can remember of his face as I push and turn and meet Heidi's smile as I walk out the door. There's no comfort for me there now. She's too late.

I hear voices behind me, maybe even my name being called, loud and pounding in my ears as I increase my pace, like hundreds of buzzing bees, but I don't stop.

_I need to get out of here. _

_Now._

Cold air hits me, the day still bright, sunshine making the once-new tarmac a dark grey—an abyss of everywhere-my-eye-can-see misery.

Fingers fumble with keys and then I'm sitting, locking doors and twisting metal until an engine rumbles to life, steering me away. Autopilot movements and I know I shouldn't be driving, but there's no one else, only _me_.

I gasp outwards, unable to halt the pain with stop signs in the brightest of reds. _Just stop, stop, stop_. Flurry after flurry of thoughts cripple, and my fingers turn white against the wheel as I struggle to keep it together until I can lock myself away in my childhood bedroom with its four safe walls in the same pale colour—until I can find arms that will hold me and love me until I can cry no more.

Until I eventually tire myself out and fall asleep with fingers running through my hair.

But the crippling thoughts... they don't stop... they don't stop.

_I'll see you at home._

_I won't be there._

_..._

"Keep your eyes closed," he whispers into my ear, even though I know where we are and who bought this for us. Hands disappear and, "Okay, open." His smile is breathtaking. I jump into his arms and kiss and smile and wrap my legs around someone who is more important to me than bricks and mortar ever could be.

...

_I can't do this anymore._

_..._

He throws his glass to the wall and I watch it shatter and fall to the floor like glitter. I'm screaming and pointing as he shouts back just as loud. His chest heaves with his anger and I throw the dish cloth at him as I attempt to storm out. I glare as I pass, and suddenly his arms are encasing me and I'm pushing at his chest with soap suds still on my hands as he grabs my face and presses his mouth against mine, all anger and need. My back finds the wall and hands are under my shirt and I hate how good it feels.

Lips on my jaw, whispered words against my skin. "_Stop_."

My eyes squeeze shut, heart beating so, so fast. "I hate you."

Forehead to forehead and fingers in my hair. "No, you don't."

...

_Where are you going?_

_My parents._

...

"He'll shoot me."

I roll my eyes. "He won't shoot you."

Green eyes light with mischief. "He would if he knew that I haven't been able to stop staring at your ass in those jeans since I got here."

Cheeks heat and I open my mouth, speechless. Then just as quickly, I look away: shy, embarrassed. But butterfly kisses flutter across my face, causing me to squirm and giggle. "Pink cheeks and tight-fitting jeans—I never stood a chance," he jokes, all big smiles of his own.

Heartbeats like a hummingbird's wing. "They're not _that_ tight," I mumble.

His hand slides slowly down my back, searching my face the whole while. He pauses... and then slides it down some more. My mouth pops open for a second time.

His eyelids seem heavy, gaze now serious. "Trust me, I can... They _are_."

A throat clears and I swing around, immediately leaning back into Edward as Charlie stands in the doorway still in his work uniform, gun and cleaning rag in hand.

Fingers touch mine behind my back as I grab blindly. "He's definitely going to shoot me," he whispers.

I nod and take a deep breath. "Yeah."

...

The engine has stopped, noises dissolved, the car no longer moving—and yet my hands still grip the steering wheel so tight that my fingers ache. I'm parked in front of a house, staring out the window of my car at familiar shutters and the familiar green of the garage door. I can't seem to get my legs to move.

This wasn't planned: no calls ahead, no packed bags with the usual essentials, no, _Mom, I don't know what to do._ I've only just managed to bring _myself_.

I don't know what all this means, the exact damage of my actions unknown—if there is even any at all. On his side, that is. Mine seems to be in a state of utter shock, a numbness wrapping around my muscles like ivy at top speed.

Maybe this is what we both need, some time apart? Maybe this will be good for us—maybe this is the last nail in the already half-buried coffin before the ground swallows us whole, forever in darkness.

_I can't breathe._

I fling myself out the car, legs shaky and unable to hold my weight as I fall forward and drop to my knees, gravel and pain slicing at my skin. I can feel the sting in my palms, feel a wetness begin to trickle down my leg; feel the gust of the breeze that lifts my hair from my shoulders.

But all I can _see_, all I can focus on, are the cracks in the pavement, splitting the ground running with their dark and angry fractures—mini wastelands set in concrete.

It's at that moment I let it go.

I set my heart free.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**I have a few recs this week:**

**'Outbound' by aftrnoondlight. Jaime and Phoebe write this so, so beautifully. It's gorgeous. Oh, and Edward makes Quiche. ;)**

**And 'A River Between' by WildRedPoppies. Again, great writing and story. I also have a really big crush on this** **Edward.**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	8. What Part Of Forever

**Hey everyone! Thanks so much for all the alerts and support. And for sharing your own stories, too.**

**Huge thanks to my gorgeous beta Susan for making this legible. And to Judy for pre-reading and making me laugh by suggesting a week at Jurassic Park for these two. ;)**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. **

* * *

Bella

Dawn breaks, but the electrifying colours don't last. Ashen skies in heavy slate loom through glass; oyster clouds with a sombre undertone, soot choking the heavens. A chiffon sheer coats the windows, flecks of falling tears, morphing into a river of despair... and I follow it. I let myself be carried away—I don't fight it. I float, waiting, cold, but nothing changes.

I sit and hate myself. I sit and hate him. I sit and wonder if I've made a mistake.

I stand and quickly stop myself from making an even bigger one as I reach for my keys.

It hurts being here without him, my insides torn to shreds; confetti in the shape of paper hearts ripped in two. But there's no celebration—no head tilted to the sky with smiles that blind. No ears full with the sound of cheers.

Nothing hits my cheeks or gets stuck in my hair. There's no hand cupped with mine, pulling me forward through a crowd. It's just hit after hit to pumping red muscle. And all I want to do is scream.

I'm all cried out, clear tracks of once tears coating my cheeks, dry as the desert—a writhing pathway of hopes dashed.

Renee had found me curled up on the sofa, a throw pillow crushed to my chest, needing to hold, needing to ground.

...

"Bella?" She closes the door, bags dropped to the floor, forgotten, and I can only imagine what I look like to her right now.

I blink through clumped lashes, trying to focus. "It hurts," I tell her, tongue heavy, lips sore, eyes puffy. She sits on bended knees in front of me, checking for outside damage that she won't find. It's inside, all of it, rupturing in my chest and making me dizzy, nauseous.

There is a smudge of dried blood from the graze on my knee, but it's nothing in comparison. It's mocking me with its red—it will heal, I'm not worried like she is.

"Did you hurt yourself, Sweetheart?" she asks, soft and calm despite the panic that is brewing in her eyes.

And I nod, and feel like I'm choking, because I have... so much.

"You fell?" she questions, again, looking to my knee, confusion making her brows draw closer.

I pull in a shaky breath: I did more than fall...

I plummeted without wings.

She gives me a small, bemused smile, the same one I got when I repeatedly fell off my bike when learning to ride without training wheels. "We'll get you fixed up. It's only a tiny cut by the looks of it."

I shake my head, and want to laugh, but instead my eyes well up, and wetness trickles down my skin. "I think I'm going to need more than a Band-Aid to fix this, Mom," I whisper, fingers unconsciously moving to rest on the left side of my chest, over my heart.

She pauses, studying, brows settling as she finally understands; no more questions are needed for now. They'll come later, but there are more important things that need to come first.

Her gaze speaks of sadness. "Oh, Bella." And with just those two words, I'm falling all over again, leaning forward into my mother's arms as she tells me everything's going to be okay.

But it won't... it won't. How can it?

...

There's no end in sight—no phone calls, no pounding on doors with angry fists. _Nothing_. I don't know what I expected, but I should have known. I did this; one rash action from one person, and suddenly a domino effect is in motion. And everybody falls.

No one more than myself.

But it had to happen... there was no more pretending. All I'd ever wanted was him, nothing else mattered. However, somewhere along the way, that must have changed... for us both. _Jealousy, bitterness... loneliness_, it all took its toll, and simply being together in any capacity was no longer enough to keep us from falling apart. It ate away at us, piece by broken piece, until desperation drove us to punish; to ignore, to pretend. But I couldn't forget, couldn't flip a switch that would make me stop remembering. And if I couldn't, then neither could he. It was everywhere we looked—in the house we shared, in the pictures on the wall, in the touches that were no more. We changed before each other's eyes, became strangers to the one person who we knew so well... knew better than anyone. We pushed that all aside and sank, afraid to swim—afraid to admit we were drowning in the first place.

The distance between us expanded slowly at first—no _goodnights_ before bed, no kisses and _have a good days_ before work. Simple things that are taken for granted. I told myself they'd work themselves out. A small crack is nothing. _Nothing. _I had to believe that_... had _to_._ The gaps could be covered up, stepped over without any resulting hassle. No one had to worry, these things happened. Not everything could be perfect. But I was stupid, and naive, and so, so desperate. All too soon those little cracks started popping up in places they shouldn't, merging together like overgrown vines, until finally it all became too much, the ground splitting in two; splitting until we were stranded on opposite sides of the street, simply staring at the abyss that lay between us.

And hadn't we jumped? It felt like I'd jumped so, so high, so far...

But had it been enough?

Either way I'd fallen into darkness.

I rest my head against the window, temple to glass, and look out meeting my own reflection, my own eyes. But they're not the right colour. Not the ones I want. There's no life, no spark; they're dead bark, and I long for moss.

Edward stopped coming home some nights, choosing to drive the farther distance to his parents' house than come home to me. And I would lie in bed, wondering what I'd done wrong, waiting for that phone call that would tell me he'd chosen to sleep without me.

But those calls never came, because that's not what we did, at least not at the beginning. After a few months though, that all changed. And we learned that the full weight of words could hurt.

Especially the cruel ones.

...

The phone rings, his name flashing across the screen. For a moment I think about not answering it, but the fact that he's even bothered to call is enough for me to press _accept_.

"I won't be home tonight."

There's no _hello_; no _I'm sorry_ or _I miss you_, just _that_, and I have to resist the urge to hang up.

"Where are you?" I ask, even though I know all too well. It's close to midnight, and I'm tired of being alone.

"In bed," he sighs, the sound of papers rustling travelling down the phone.

_Why are you phoning?_ is what I really want to ask, but of course, that's not what ends up leaving my mouth.

I look beside me on instinct. "Why aren't you in _this_ bed?" I question, hating the feel of cool sheets where there should be warm legs.

_Is he looking for an argument?_

_Am I?_

Silence. Only breathing.

"Edward?" I press, sitting up against the pillows.

"Because I wanted to be alone."

_I think he is._

I swallow heavily. "Are your parents home?"

A pause. "Yes."

I take a deep breath. "Then you're not really alone, are you?" I whisper, staring at the swirling pattern of the duvet cover; round and round, smaller and smaller.

"I guess not," he replies casually. And it hurts.

I close my eyes, gripping the duvet with one hand. "Be honest," I whisper, and I guess I'm all too willing to push him back. "Why didn't you come home tonight?"

I hear the whoosh of sliding doors, and know he's stepped outside. "I had to speak to my father about something."

_Wrong._

My tongue clicks against the roof of my mouth. "And you couldn't have done that over the phone?"

"No, it was too important."

I frown, throat tight. "But I'm not important enough that you can phone me close to midnight to say you won't be home... hours after you're meant to be?"

I bite my lip, hating how my voice breaks.

_Weak_.

The wind crackles down the line, threatening to break the reception. "It's different."

_No, Edward, it really isn't._

"You're lying. Be honest with me."

I say it again... and again, voice rising, so, so tired.

"Stop!" he snaps, interrupting me after my third attempt. "I didn't want to come home to you, is that what you wanted to hear? Do you feel better now?"

He's shouting, and I welcome it. Hearing his anger is better than drowning in my own anguish. But then his words register, and I'm falling under all over again, bubbles rising to the surface as I scream and choke.

"Yes, I feel better," I voice, rubbing my eyes before the tears can fall. "Do you?"

I don't wait for his answer.

I already know what it will be.

_Silence_.

...

I turn away from the window and squeeze my lids closed, waiting... cold. Minutes... hours... all I see is grey—black and white re-runs that never end.

And still nothing changes.

XXX

A door closes, voices that aren't quite a whisper muffled to my ears as they drift through bedroom walls. Charlie's home; he's no doubt questioning why my car is parked outside the house at this time of the morning. But I don't want to think about the words my parents are exchanging, my thoughts drifting to faces that I also wish I could block, even if for a minute. I want the blank nothingness of the ocean—the stark white of all encompassing snow: quiet, solitude... peace. I want to drift away on sailboats and forget.

Forget_ him_.

But deep down I know that's a lie. I wonder what he's thinking, questions soaring through my head—white doves with messages on the smallest squares of torn paper attached to tiny stalks.

Is he thinking about me, like I am him?

_Smiles so wide: smiles that reach your eyes and crinkle at the outer corners. Smiles that let me know you're happy_._ I want to kiss each and every one._

And I want to ask and ask and ask.

_Are you staring out at nothing wanting it to be everything?_

My fingers trace patterns on the panes of glass, invisible outlines of a different scene beyond sprung to life with a tip of a finger: A couple with fingers entwined, arms swinging between them, an unconscious sign of happiness.

I wash it all away with the palm of my hand.

_Are you remembering all the good that is now infused with the bad; a net of gold and black thread, knotted and torn, seemingly irreparable? _

I look to my left hand, third finger, where white gold glistens. I twist it—spin and spin, scared to stop and pull—scared to see it bare.

I was so happy the day he asked me that life-altering question, the one I was almost sure he wouldn't ask, his one-time declaration among tangled sheets never taken seriously.

**~CitP~**

Whisper soft kisses flutter across my skin, lips pressing to my cheeks, over and over—along with that perfect spot just behind my ear that makes me want to snuggle down even further. They are _good morning_, and _wake up_, and my favourite: _I love you._

"I made breakfast," he murmurs, hand slipping beneath my sleep shirt, warming my skin.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, one that I quickly try to hide. "I'm sleeping."

"Hmm," he hums, fingers teasing the undersides of my breasts, giving me goose bumps. "And yet, you're talking."

"It's a _Sunday_," I say, as if that explains everything.

I feel his smile against my skin. "I'm aware of what day it is."

A stilted gasp escapes my mouth, soft and breathy as I squirm. "Sunday mornings are meant for lie-ins," I clarify, arching against his hand as it covers my right breast.

"But it's no longer morning," he breathes, teeth grazing against my skin. "It's already midday."

_Oh._

"I'm tired," I whisper, feeling his body move closer, instinctively turning my face towards the warmth.

His lips find my cheek. "You're beautiful."

I can't hide my smile this time.

He links his fingers with mine, bringing my left hand to his mouth as he places a soft kiss to the middle of my palm, lips lingering briefly before pulling away.

I want to stay here all day, exactly like this, warm and happy and comfortably-sleepy.

The bed shifts, and I go to open my eyes, not wanting him to leave, but he's still beside me, sliding something halfway onto my finger...

And suddenly it feels as if my heart has stopped.

My eyes snap open, instantly meeting his as he holds the band of metal in place, not moving it any further.

His tongue sweeps against his bottom lip as he draws in a deep breath, determined and steadying.

"My favourite part of the day is waking up with you right next to me," he tells me, brushing the hair from my face as my heart _beats, beats, beats_ inside my chest.

He swallows hard, eyes finding mine once again, holding me captive as light pours in from the window, highlighting the very tips of his hair. He's golden, and mine and I feel weightless.

"I know we're young, and people will no doubt think we're moving too fast... that _I'm_ moving too fast," he breathes, "but when you find that one person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you don't let them get away from you—you take hold of them and run, because loving someone like that is the best feeling in the world."

I can't say anything... so overwhelmed in this moment I can do nothing but stare. Not that I need to say a word.

"I want to wake up every day and know you'll be there when I open my eyes," he professes, using his free hand to trace the area above my left eye, gaze soft as every inch of my face is given his attention. "And I want to come home from work or school and pull you into my arms, because that's where you belong."

He slides the ring all the way down my finger, watching its descent before meeting my eyes once more. "And this ring... this is exactly where _it_ belongs, right here, with you."

My throat feels like it's closing, and my eyes are stinging. I'm trembling, nervous and intoxicated with the kind of exultation that I didn't know existed.

"I want the kind of forever that makes others jealous," he says softly, brushing my hair from the other side of my face, his touch gentle and adoring. "The kind that is meant for the lucky few who know no one else can ever touch what they have."

I feel the first onslaught of tears escape from my eyes, but I don't brush them away. They are little pear-drops of emotion that can no longer be contained. Little shows of joy.

He cradles my face with his palms, thumbs brushing my cheeks. "I want that kind of forever with _you_," he whispers hoarsely, eyes searching mine beneath dark lashes.

And I swear I haven't known what true happiness feels like until this very moment.

Green eyes unyielding, and words that change my whole world: "Isabella Swan, will you marry me?"

I pause... not long enough to give him concern, and not because I don't know my answer or because I have any doubt. I simply want to remember this moment—embed as much detail into my memory as possible.

My fingers reach out to his jaw as I scratch softly at his stubble, my resulting smile one that I know will bring the sweetest ache to my cheeks. "Yes," I laugh, forcing him onto his back as I shift and throw myself on him, peppering his face with kisses. "Yes, yes, yes."

He responds with my favourite smile, the one where one side of his mouth lifts slightly higher than the other, heart-stoppingly perfect. "Yeah?" he asks, tucking my hair behind my ear.

I nod, breathless. "Yeah."

The backs of his fingers graze my cheek as his smile dips and turns into that soft upturn of lips; buttery-yellow cupcakes I want on my tongue.

"I love you."

I lean down and press my mouth to his, his hands weaving into my hair, bunching strands into fists at the back of my head as I stroke his tongue with my own, feeling the warmth of his bare chest through cotton. "And I love you," I whisper.

I'm soon lost in touches that make my lips part and eyes flutter shut; touches that draw sounds out of me I don't know I own. Wet mouths and warm tongues, fingers that curl and make me gasp—whispered words against skin that make my heart ready to burst.

And I do all those things back—_give_ and _give_ and _give_—breaths shared and held as bodies join: push and pull and _so, so good_.

Move; slow, fast, slow... faster.

Flushed cheeks and loving stares say all that need to be said as bodies tense and let go.

**~CitP~**

I'd been positive my dreams of happily ever after were simply wishes of the heart. And I guess they still are.

Only this time, my dreams aren't so happy—they're plagued with past mistakes that linger and burn.

XXX

Sleepless nights parade on my face as I catch my reflection in the mirror by the front door; marching bands that have forgotten the music, mismatched notes bleeding together. It's the first time I've left my room other than to use the bathroom since I got here, the walls in the house feeling more like a prison than a safe-house. And I know all too well why. Even here I can't escape it. Any of it.

The house is still, apart from the gentle hum of the TV as I silently slip out the door clutching my blanket to me. I settle myself in the wicker chair on the porch, a favourite spot in summers past. The grey still hovers, night weighing in, oppressive and foretelling—it's fitting.

Then I see it, parked out front, my whole body tensing.

He's looking this way... watching, and I can do nothing but stare right back.

I thought I'd wanted him here, but actually seeing him... it changes things. It makes what I haven't got all too real.

The car door opens, and he steps out, same suit as yesterday, tie gone, shirt crinkled. And still too beautiful not to hurt.

Then I notice the bag in his hand... and the ache intensifies.

He's not here to talk... he's here to make sure I stay, and I'm glad I'm sitting, because the earth tilts, my head screaming for me to go back inside before further damage is caused.

His eyes don't leave mine as he walks, then stops right at the chair beside me, close enough to touch, and beg, and hurt right back.

I have to look away, unable to bear his gaze any longer. He lowers himself onto the matching chair, pushed at a slight angle, knees almost brushing. I pull my legs to my chest, and temptation is gone.

He sets the bag at my feet, ice broken. "I brought you some things," he says lowly, drawing his hand back to his side slowly.

Am I supposed to thank him?

"I wasn't sure you'd want to come back and get them yourself," he adds, staring straight ahead.

And where silence was once a way to hide, it's now a test of control.

He's made the decision for me... and I can't figure out whom his actions benefit more: him or me?

"What happens now?" I ask.

His knee bounces, his eyes narrowing as he shifts his gaze to the sky. "I don't know."

But he must know, because he turns and stares at me for the longest moment, eyes searching, filling my own with clear despair.

I think he's going to say something else, his hands fisting in his lap, but he's on his feet before any of that can happen.

And the split in the ground gets bigger.

He leaves, and it takes everything I have in me not to follow him, but this time I stay exactly where I am. Because I was the one who chose to walk out, and this is why I'm here, after all.

His car pulls away, and I don't realise I'm gripping the blanket with tight fists until they start to ache.

Was it so easy for him to leave like that? No questions... no fight.

I sit and feel nothing. No hate, no tears; lonely icebergs that don't melt, surrounded by inky darkness that swallows me whole.

Night falls, stars dotting the sky with their winking light; a portrait of diamond infused granite.

That is until onyx eclipses everything, and all I'm left with is black.

It's different from grey; better, worse... _numb_—like falling asleep without the lights.

I stay sitting and wait for dawn.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**I have a couple of recs this week: **

**Pinky Swear by kharizzmatik. The UST is amazing, and I love this Jake.**

**and **

**How to Paint a House by Maggie's Gutter. One of the sweetest stories. It makes me smile.**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	9. Littlest Things

**Hey everyone! Thank you so much for all your messages and reviews. I truly appreciate each and every one. Also, one or two of you mentioned not receiving a teaser for the last chapter, but that's because your account is currently set to deny PM's. If you change**** your settings, I can send them your way. :)**

**And as always, a huge thank you to Susan and Judy for all their help. I love them both.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

Light flickers, muted flashes behind my lids—a movie on the big screen, illustrations quivering... blazing to life. Something changes, a new reel. Stop. Start. _Click_. Again. A picture only I can understand flutters inside my head; a window to my soul. There are ballerina twirls, and heads thrown back; laughs and smiles and something beautiful. A beginning. _Click_.

Warmth flutters, blooms inside my chest as I watch and breathe—quick, slow, quick, all in sepia tones. Consciousness is gaining, a scene long gone, but not forgotten, threatening to shift. Kisses are blown and caught on lips, glittering eyes and daisies placed in hair. And I watch as promises get whispered to skin, to hearts, to places that ache. Growing. _Click_.

Shouting matches, screams inside my head, back and forth. Towering forms and looks like hate; anger and pain, love and defeat... teardrops. An ending. _Stop_.

My eyes open, swift and without warning, instantly meeting blinding white. And I know this sight all too well.

_Alone_.

I reach out with tired limbs and touch nothing—air and the sight of my own fingers as they search for something that isn't there, all pale skin and pink in the dull light of a January morning.

And in the end I pull back with nothing but a shaky sigh that threatens to crack open my chest and expose my pain and red for the universe to see if they choose to look.

I stare at the mountain of space beside me, imagining forms that no longer exist in my world asleep and _here_. It's the hardest part of my morning, knowing I have no one to share it with.

Waking up in an empty bed is the loneliest feeling; bare sheets and unwrinkled pillows, snowy cotton and barren hearts.

You think you'll get used to it, but you never do. One half of the pair is missing, and that's impossible to ignore. I try and try so hard it scares me, the desperation asphyxiating. And sometimes when I'm not trying, that one lucky hour where it all falls away, it's so easy to forget.

But sometimes it's not.

Every now and then I can push aside those painful reminders—images of green eyes and crooked smiles, sleep-messed hair and groans that build in your chest as touches ignite need—and sometimes it's all I can do to stay above water as my heart drops and anchors, dragging me down until breaths run out and everything stops.

It's at those times I have to try and be strong and think of other things.

But weakness is not my virtue—it's my vice.

And it's impossible to stop.

Dreams plague my sleep, lingering when I wake. And God, the leaving hurts, sometimes so much I'm positive I'll no longer be able to breathe, but it's nothing compared to the flashbacks. They're uncontrollable because they_ happened_, past tense: they're set in stone, utterly _unchangeable_. They aren't what-if scenarios that you wish for, but realities that bring you to your knees while doing something as simple as making a cup of coffee. And it's that, right there, those everyday scenes between a husband and wife that fully drive that wedge between your ribs. The little things really do cut the deepest. And whether it's the end of the day, or first thing in the morning, it's those that hit you the hardest. They're the things you miss the most—fingers against cheeks as they brush hair aside, laundry folded at the end of the bed you don't remember washing. Lazy Sundays spent cuddled together on the couch watching bad TV. And that single text containing the words "love" and "you" that sheltered you from whatever else was happening that day.

But there's no shelter now. There are holes in the roof and crumbling walls, rain falling to cheeks before splashing to the ground. Everything feels like it's falling apart at such a rapid pace. A complete contrast to the slow deterioration that was occurring before, leaving no escape from the cobblestone heap now at my feet which only continues to get bigger as the days pass. I've become trapped in my own despair with no way to break through to the other side—a side where the sun shines and laughter vibrates, a foreign land to the graveyard that has me shackled at the heart.

Knowing I can't stay lying between these empty sheets any longer, I tiredly pull myself from bed, a heaviness to my limbs that was never there in the beginning. I dress in the comfiest jeans I can find, not caring what I look like or when I last brushed my hair. Those things no longer matter.

And before I leave this room to go through another one of those painful little reminders, I pause, my hand on the doorknob, trying to calm. One breath... two, open. I get ready for a new day.

I simply get ready for the same.

XXX

I know Renee wants to talk, I can see it in her eyes when I turn and catch her watching me when she thinks I'm not looking. She wears that same worried expression that took residence on her face the day she found me sitting here with tear stains on my cheeks, her concern evident. And I hate to see that I'm doing that to her, but I don't know how to make it go away. I can't seem to voice the word that would suggest what Edward and I are right now.

_Over_.

And I have to squeeze my eyes shut because it's just as hard to think it.

She hasn't asked for details though; she won't until I'm ready, and I think she can sense I'm not. Even Charlie seems to be waiting, which is exactly him, as he's never been one to pry. And yet I can tell he's just as worried as Mom is. He's a little more restless than usual, the odd shift in his chair with a throat clear, maybe hoping to gain my attention, or maybe just a simple reminder that he's there if needed. Either way my heart breaks and blooms that I'm putting them through this as well.

They're simply being here for me in the only way I'm able to let them right now, and that's silent company. My days aren't as alone as they were before; _lonely_, but not alone.

I still think back to Edward's words to me those five days before in his office.

_Won't you get lonely?_

And even thinking about them now... they make me want to laugh out in humourless despair, because how had he not seen I was just as lonely with_ him_? Even when he was home, it was as if he wasn't, so lost to himself, keeping me locked out. And in return, I guess I did the same.

I always used to think the fights were the bad part, but the indifference was far worse. And still is.

So whenever those words push themselves into my head, I'll sometimes give him a different answer to the one I voiced amongst those four walls that I never want to step foot inside again—a single word whispered that explains everything... the same word that sealed this marriage for us with the happiest of hearts.

_Yes_.

Yes, I get lonely. But then I remember all those nights I'd sit across a room from him, asking myself where my husband had gone. The man that had taken his place was a stranger; so much so, that when I looked at my own reflection in the mirror, I wondered whose face that was, too.

So while I'm still drifting in the expanse of the arctic, in desolate wonder and fear, there's never any doubt in continuing to go forward. Turning back isn't a viable option.

In fact, it isn't even an option at all. And I have to ignore the freeze—ignore the shell of ice that encompasses itself around my heart.

XXX

Sunset is approaching, paint dropped through the clouds creating a tie-dye of colours, a rainbow of the night.

The temperature has dropped, cause for hats and gloves and a wool-like noose around my neck whose fibres tickle against my skin. No one's home, Dad at work and Mom with a neighbour, and sitting in an empty house is reminding me of the very things I was trying to get away from in the first place. So I'm walking, nowhere in particular, just one step in front of the other until the house disappears and the roads become quieter—until all I'm left with is a darkening evening and a need to escape.

It's been five days since I spoke to Edward... almost _six_... five days since I last saw him. And it feels like months and yesterday all at the same time. There are so many things we need to talk about; so many things I don't want to have to discuss. He hasn't been back to the house, hasn't tried to contact me once. And I don't know if it's because he's in the same boat as I am, holding on to the sides for dear life as the storm continues to play havoc with the elements, or whether it's simply because he no longer cares about me or us or what happens next. Maybe it's all of those things. Maybe he's happier now.

And another layer of ice builds.

Emmett has phoned. Twice. And both times I've ignored his call. I know it's cowardly, a lion running scared, but I just couldn't bring myself to answer. And not only that, the realisation that came with his phoning me, showing he cares, while Edward stays silent—it hurts more than words can express.

He'd left a message the second time, but I have yet to listen to it, and that was two days ago now. It's obvious Edward's spoken with him, otherwise there's no way he'd know. Or, worse, he's already spoken to his parents without discussing anything with me first, and news has travelled fast. Evidently I'm no longer his main concern. I don't think I have been for quite a while.

I'd taken a week off work, no fuss made, cover found, easily replaceable even there. But at least I know I'll be returning come Monday. It's a constant in my suddenly ever changing life.

This makes me think of Jasper, and that awkward moment we'd shared. This is the first time I've thought of him since then, and I briefly worry that I may have burnt bridges there, too, especially with the way I up and left. But that's so small to the other things going on right now. And I guess I'll have to see if that bridge is still standing when and if I get to it.

I come to the end of the road, my breath evident in the night, chalky exhales in the blackboard of the sky as my eyes get drawn to the lone building that stands out like a sore thumb in the otherwise empty road.

The Lodge is exactly that. It's all deep, dark wood and rich in colour—a sturdy and rustic building that speaks of what home should feel like. Smoke billows from the lone chimney, filling the night with off-white clouds that hide the stars. I don't mind; none are for me anyway. I step closer, drawn in by the windows illuminating the copper warmth from inside, reminding me of autumn leaves and hot cinnamon drinks; comfort and palms against rosy cheeks. And I need that right now. Need it in the most basic form apart from another's touch; liquor and open fires and something other than heartache or _numb_.

And while feelings can change, memories don't. And I can't stop falling back into one now.

**~CitP~**

Flushed cheeks and scotch and home... that's what Edward represents to me right now as he sits beside me, coaxing with lips and smiles and lazy lids.

"Bella," he breathes, leaning closer. "Please."

I shake my head, face warm. "No."

He tries again, hair tickling my skin as his lips press to my neck. "Just a sip... I want you to taste like me." And he isn't playing fair.

"I don't like scotch, Edward," I whisper, lashes fluttering shut as he sucks on my skin, teeth grazing and tongue warm, before pulling back and exhaling right over that spot.

Hand on my knee under the table, sliding up and up. "You don't like me?"

"I don't like _scotch_," I clarify, gripping the edge of the bench, conscious of the people that can see, but uncaring.

"But that's me right now," he smirks, all dark green amusement and tempting pink.

He's silly and drunk and I _love, love, love_.

I shake my head, a smile of my own forming. "I don't like the burn."

His gaze flickers down to my mouth, his lips parting. "But that's the best part. It lets you know you're alive."

My bottom lip becomes trapped between teeth as his fingertips dig into my thigh; lust and heat and _oh God, touch me_.

No, yes, _please_. "Okay."

Kisses against the edge of my mouth, not close enough as he brings the glass to my lips. "Just a little. You're not used to it."

"No, I don't like it," I laugh, holding the other side of the glass.

My lips part and I can already taste it on my tongue: tip and taste and crinkled brows. He smiles, lazy and happy.

"Yeah... No," I laugh, feeling the heat inside my throat as I push it away. "And stop laughing," I say, shoving at his chest.

More kisses, hand higher. "Your face..."

"Shut up."

Lips find mine; tasting tongues and nips and hands pulling hair. Soft, once more, and away. Breathless.

"Again?" he teases, licking his lips.

I smile, focusing on the buttons of his shirt as my fingers play. "I don't think so."

Hair pushed behind my ears, "But it makes you mine."

I look up, lashes tickling. "I was already yours."

Heated stares and fingers on my own. "I like to be thorough."

And he does, which he proves to me when we get home as he makes me burn in a whole new way.

_He_ lets me know I'm alive.

**~CitP~**

Before I think about what I'm doing, I'm inside ordering that very same drink. Remembering. Fighting tears as I sit at the bar and keep going until things become hazy and my tongue feels numb.

Minutes pass and no one pays me any attention. They simply do the same as me and try to forget about their day while trying to remember the good.

Then I notice a couple in the corner, as a song I recognise plays softly from the speakers, acting like the kind of love that tears at your soul—puppet master strings, pulls and twists, soon acting out a scene of jealous heartache.

I look away as my heart beats, beats, beats... crazy and fast. I pick up my phone... and I'm stupid. Stupid fingers and stupid need; stupid names and accelerated heartbeats. I scroll through contacts and stare at a name embedded into every part of me, especially the parts that pump and hurt; a melancholy tempo that follows and moves as I do. Twists and twirls, wisplike smoke; pointe turns and spins, over and over, my world dizzy without him.

I press my lids closed, hoping for focus when lashes lift and colours hit; hoping for normal. But I blink and blink, and it's not. How can it be? I don't have the person who should be beside me, here.

Green button pressed and I wait... _doubt_, but still listen, each ring seemingly longer than the previous. But no one answers. And I want to sink my head to the table and close my eyes, sleep through this until things get better. Because surely is has to—surely it can't get any worse?

The ringing ends and a voice I recognise but don't know starts to speak, and this is the time I should pull the phone away, but I can't, and deep breaths are taken before a tone sounds, and then words... they flee.

"Why didn't you fight?" I say, and I know no one is listening right now, but someone could... _he_ could, and it's somehow easier to speak to him like this, without the sight of him to distract me. "You gave up, and it hurts... It hurts so much."

My voice drops and I pick up my drink, draining the rest, lips pursed against the taste as I feel the heat bloom inside my chest. "I'm missing you, and drinking things I don't like. Do you remember? Scotch... and now I feel sick and can't feel my fingertips. But I think that's a good thing. Numb to the world," I breathe, hating the tears that spring to my eyes.

I'm quiet and embarrassed and despise my weakness. I should hang up.

"But the worst part is that I don't know how to be someone you miss anymore. And I wish I did, because then maybe I could understand why."

My voice breaks, and I hate it, not that it matters, because I don't think I can say anymore now anyway. I hang up, red pressed and order one last drink. More minutes pass, but this time I don't touch it. Because I still don't like it... I just wanted to remember what it felt like to be his.

The door opens and chills surge... and I panic, because I realise where I am, and I doubt I can walk home like this. It's pitch-black outside, the hour late, and I don't want to have to call my father. I'm not a little girl anymore, despite feeling like one right now.

I go to leave, but pause as my eyes meet the person's by the door. My heart skips like stones across the water: once, twice... three times. Until it sinks, falling like saltwater tears.

Jeans and shirt and hands in pockets... simply watching. And there's no way I can stand now.

He makes his way towards me, pausing as he gets within touching distance, close enough but still distant.

His eyes drift to my drink and away again. "Did you drive here?"

It takes me a moment to answer him, because I should have known he isn't here for the same reasons I am. "No." And my voice sounds hoarse.

"How many have you had?" he asks, still not looking at me.

I grip the sides of my stool. "Enough."

His chest expands, deep breath taken. "How did you plan on getting home?"

I look away because his words hurt. I shrug.

"I didn't think you could be so stupid," he tells me, stepping forward as I go to get down.

I blink, lips dry and parted, my voice sleepy. "I didn't know you thought of me at all." It's bitter. I don't care.

He breathes, slow and deep, face a blank canvas. Calm. He looks like always. "I thought..." he says lowly, hard and smooth, melting into my skin like liquid silk. He shakes his head, and I want to close my eyes and burn along with the fire of potent amber in my glass.

He reaches for my things, not finishing his previous sentence before he starts another. "I think it's time for you to go home."

I feel angry and humiliated, but I don't argue. I'm too tired.

My feet find purchase on the ground, but things start to sway and I stumble forward into arms that haven't held me in so long.

He rights me instantly, and my fingers grip his shirt as I try to steady. "I'm sorry."

"Just hold onto my arm if you need to," he murmurs as he leads us both out, the cold hitting me instantly as I try to slide my hands into my gloves. He watches me struggle for a few seconds before helping, brows drawn together as he concentrates.

I follow him to his car, hesitating briefly before getting in, but once I do, I fear I'll not want to get back out. It's warm and smells like him, and the sleep that has been weighing down the past hour or so threatens once more.

My eyes drop closed as the engine starts, the sound somehow comforting, and all too soon it's off again, my door opening as arms lift me out.

"I can walk," I say half-heartedly. It makes no difference.

The door opens and I feel Edward pause as he looks towards the kitchen to where my father is standing in his uniform, no doubt having just gotten home from work.

"Charlie," he greets, and I see my dad's arms cross as he looks back at the two of us.

"Edward," he nods after a moment before heading back into the kitchen.

I can feel the tension in his arms as he continues to carry me up the stairs, and I realise this will be the first time we've been in this room together in almost a year.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, no directions needed as he sets me gently on the bed.

Moonlight pours through the window, highlighting his face in marble white; ghostly shades and surely he isn't real?

I get caught up in green stares, traps that lure and hold—one that I don't struggle to break free from. I look and look, falling for his eyes all over again, and feel that stab in my chest that reminds me he may no longer be mine.

He looks down after a moment, and I'm met with shadows.

I swallow hard, struggling to keep my eyes open, sleep threatening to pull me under; waves and sand and dancing kelp. This is the closest he's been in months while still keeping that wall up, and I suddenly don't regret stupid phone calls.

He's back to watching, almost as if he's memorising my face, which brings a new bout of panic and fear. He'll leave, just like I did, but with Edward it's different—I get the feeling if he walks out right now, he won't be coming back.

Yet, what else did I expect?

I go to sit, but strong hands push against my shoulders, warmth to my skin. It's what I've been seeking, which tears at my heart, because it's from the one person I know can't give it. And despite my mountain of wanting him to, I'm not sure I could handle it either. I ignore the shiver that travels through me, the goose bumps that attack my skin, and rest my head against the pillow.

My eyes start to sting and I can't stop the few stray teardrops that escape from the outer corners, sliding down my temples before they get lost to chestnut waves.

"Was it so easy for you to let me go?" I whisper, rawness and pain continuing to drive the hurt from my eyes. I'm so tired, and want to sleep, but I'm scared, too—scared of waking up and having to repeat this day over and over.

I swallow thickly, and lashes meet and tangle as lids briefly close. I'm not sure I can.

He turns his focus to the window, staring out at a moon that must hold the answers he wants to give, but doesn't divulge.

"Is this what you want?" he wonders instead.

My lips part, shaky exhales lost to the room. "How can you ask me that?"

And words that are straight and sharp and cut right to the bone, "Because you're here."

Quick glances over that settle and stop. "Because I need to be, not because I want to."

I'm waiting for his reply, but he's taking too long, and I can no longer keep my eyes open.

Whispers from open windows, breeze tickling softly at my cheeks.

"What about what I want, Bella?"

But I'm not sure I hear that right, as sounds become hazy and I think I hear a door open and close as I get lost to a film of smiles and twirls, frame after of frame of someone who looks just like me. Someone that _is_ me.

And someone else I know, too.

Stop. Start. _Click_.

Again.

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**VHL xx**


	10. In My Veins

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**And this chapter is for Jen... four days late. lol**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I just make them depressed.**

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Bella

I wake with a start, heart hammering inside my chest like the flyaway wings of a hummingbird as it stops and hovers, assessing a situation; bright coloured feathers and zippy movements that speak of unadulterated panic. Cotton sheets become fisted beside me, straight fingers to curling claws as my gaze begins to shift, searching for something I think I've forgotten, but can't remember.

I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to be looking for, and the fear that builds inside my chest is on par with _fluffy white_ in a sky full of cashmere slate; a great height, utterly unreachable, yet cruelly taunting with its presence.

My head pounds, drum beats resonating inside my skull like explosions in the sky, no colours, simply white. The light is still there though, bright and blinding as last night flitters, intermittent like bad reception, fuzzy to clear, over and over.

I remember darkness and cold and arms beneath my knees, scent and scotch and a warmth I want to cocoon myself in until it's safe to come out—until the world is beautiful once more... until I can fly. _More wings_.

I'm confused and so, so tired, and the urge to drift away like sailboats in the sunshine is wholly overwhelming, warmth on my cheeks as sounds fade. But that's never going to happen with this apprehension striking through my veins; lightening flashes and snapping whips that crack upon impact.

I picture brown hair tinted bronze in a certain light and I instantly know what's missing. He didn't stay. He left. And I'm lying here more confused than ever, waiting for everything to calm; waiting for the missing pieces to slot into place. But they're stubborn and won't fit, eyes burning and throat tightening, voice fracturing as a noise I don't recognise escapes my mouth.

Eyes squeezing shut, I remember stupid fingers and his face in the moonlight, the tone of his voice as he asked me what I wanted, his replies still evasive as ever. He came for me, his appearance never my intention, a sudden burst of warmth to my rainy days: I'd just wanted to speak to him, hear his voice.

I miss him every second of every day, and was so _desperate_... desperate for any kind of contact after days without it; craving and needing and hating this was happening to us.

It's so hard. I watched everything change before our eyes, forever a part of the scene that gradually started to unfold. But it was impossible to stop it, impossible to pause, like sand slipping through my fingers, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.

Time moved too fast, or maybe I was just too slow, and the outcome shifted—morphed into something I never wanted, yet am now stuck with; a daily reminder that pierces my soul and creates this half-person who, ultimately, feels dead inside, all fallen leaves and forgotten hollows.

I thought I'd have all the answers, that if the time came, I'd be fine. I'd _know_, and _deal_, and things would move forward, for better or worse.

But I never _actually_ thought it would happen, and when it did, I couldn't make it stop. I was drowning and scared and wanted so desperately to fight my way back to the surface—where I could breathe and see and feel things other than fear and murky water. But that would all have been so easy, and in the end the answers that were never there to begin with were the things that kept me trapped beneath water, invisible weights secured to my chest as the fight ended.

My head turns on the pillow, gaze locking in on two white pills beside an unopened bottle of water. They remind me of nights just like the one last night, but different... different in the fact we weren't fighting—different in the fact I was sure he still loved me.

I sit up shakily; all newborn limbs and uncertainty as I try and remember the last time he did something like this for me... if it was even him at all.

My heart sinks, and I remember this is not our bed. This is not our room. And he isn't here.

My mind flashes to Charlie's face on arrival here last night and I know this must somehow be him, forever the concerned parent.

I reach out with disappointed fingers and swallow them quickly, forcing them down with mouthfuls of now tepid water. The taste instantly registers on my tongue, bringing a different kind of uneasiness to my stomach to the one that has been present of late; unwelcome house guests who take and take and take.

My bag is still on the bed beside me, contents now loose on cotton sheets, and my gaze is instantly drawn to my phone. It taunts me, and after last night, the message I know to be stored there starts to flash in my mind's eyes, red warnings and green clearances fighting against one another.

Without second guessing myself, I reach out with hands that shake and quickly bring up the message, hitting speaker phone as I drop it back to the bed.

_Hey, Bella, it's Em_.

There's a lengthy pause before he continues, and I have to resist the urge to delete the message more than once during that time, fear springing through my veins like metal coils, metallic and rust and flowing life force.

_I was calling to check in, ask how you are, but you're not answering. And I get that. But, are you okay? I'm worried about you._

His concern warms my heart, but it also reminds me that it's coming from the wrong person.

_You know you can call me, or come to the house any time you want. Rose and I will be staying at my parents for a few days while they're at the lake house in Michigan, so it's just us if you need to talk. Or just me, whichever. _

_I nearly stopped by your parents... but I wasn't sure if you'd want me there..._

And Emmett isn't stupid; he knows I'd never be able to discuss anything with his fiancée. We've never attempted to talk, to get close, neither one of us seemingly interested. And that's fine.

The message pauses for a second time and I begin to wonder if he'd finally hung up at this point when his voice comes again.

_Also, I called because... I'm worried about... Edward. _

He sighs and my eyes squeeze shut just hearing his name, all trepidation and stilted breaths.

_He's not answering his phone, either... not after that day..._

He doesn't finish that thought, but then he doesn't need to. I know which day he's referring to.

The uneasiness Em's words would have caused if I'd listened to this message before last night isn't lost on me. And if I hadn't seen Edward only hours before, I'd no doubt be worrying right this second, too. But I did, and he was fine. More than fine.

He was evidently dealing with things a lot better than I was.

_He looked like shit last time I saw him, and I don't know what's happening, but don't give up, okay? Just... talk to him. _

I pull my knees to my chest, my cheek immediately finding solace against the curve as a frown plays across my lips.

Knowing that Edward has done a three-sixty in a matter of days, stings, and my throat tightens in response as his words sink in. Everything Em is saying is going against what I know to be true. What I saw only last night. So what's changed between now and then?

The very thought of Edward moving on crushes me, rubble and avalanches of _white_.

_I'm gonna go, but remember, you're not alone in this. So if you need me, for anything, I'm here. I'll hopefully speak to you soon. Take care of yourself, Bella. Bye._

His words warm and shatter; open fires and crystal frames that crash to the floor, encased pictures unrecognisable behind a web of cracks.

I was hoping he'd have more to say, hoping he'd clue me in to how Edward was really feeling, because he'd not shown anything to me.

He'd always been so vocal, so loving, and it was like a switch had been flipped over night; on to off. Love to indifference. Words to silence.

Our lives are forever altered, and it feels like we've reached a dead-end. There are no crossroads, no safe lefts or risky rights.

There's nothing. Simply heartbreak wherever I stand.

And I don't know what to do.

XXX

Steam fogs the window as hot water boils, and I wish everything was as easily concealed as greenery beyond glass.

I'm searching for Mom's favourite recipe book when I spot it; a picture of Edward and me from Prom. It was the first and only dance I'd been to; the first time I'd danced, period.

It wasn't my last, though. No. I danced in off-white silk in the arms of glistening green on my wedding day, the two of us alone and perfect and so, so happy—euphoric.

I thought nothing would touch us. Ever.

How wrong I was.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I slam the drawer shut, angry at the world... angry at _myself_.

"Bella?" And I forget I'm not alone.

I know that tone; she's worried, and I have to hold back from telling her _so am I, Mom, so am I._

It's unfair to keep this from her, my own despair becoming hers as she watches me day after day become this shell of a person who looks like her daughter, but acts like a complete stranger.

I know if the situation were reversed, I'd be anxious, too. And never as patient as she's been the past week. Never.

"I'm sorry," I say, wiping my cheeks. "I'm fine, honestly." But I'm lying. I don't even know what _honesty_ feels like anymore. I don't know what _anything_ feels like anymore.

Her fingers sweep my hair behind my ears as she quickly dries my cheeks, staring at me in that way that only mothers do when they feel hopeless.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, and I can see the pleading in her eyes, the _let me share some of the burden_.

I pull in a shaky breath. "No... Yes," I answer, tongue heavy.

And maybe I do know what honesty is as the next words leave my mouth. "I just want things to stop hurting," I say, my voice breaking as sobs build.

I suddenly feel like I won't ever stop crying, and the look she gives me makes it worse, because I know I'm causing her pain, too.

"Oh, Sweetheart," she murmurs, pulling me into her arms.

I want to beg her to make it better, beg her to make it go away. I'm breaking down, terrified at what comes next; terrified by the idea of a ring-less hand and my name signed on a dotted line.

I want to be five and have her fix it with kisses to the forehead and my favourite flavoured ice-cream; swing sets and cartoons that make me laugh until I cry.

But those times have long gone. And they aren't coming back.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I'm trying so hard to stop.

She eventually pulls back and rests her hands on my shoulders, and I want to ask her when I became so grown up; when I started having real problems and feeling like I'd let everyone down?

"You can't work it out?" she asks lowly, brows furrowing. And I guess she already knows. Because what else could be causing this?

I shake my head, unsure. "I don't know," I admit. "It doesn't feel like it." And my heart constricts, hating the very sound of it.

"Bella," she starts, taking my face in her hands, sorrow and compassion lining the creases of her face. "If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that a love like that doesn't just fizzle out," she assures, her grip tightening as she gives my shoulders a slight squeeze. "It just gets a little lost, that's all."

I instantly want to tell her that she doesn't understand, that she doesn't realise just how bad things have become. Or maybe she does. I'm here, after all.

"And what if I'm the one who's lost?" I ask, swallowing heavily.

She smiles sadly. "Then I'd say you're just like the rest of us," she replies softly. "We all feel like that at some point, Bella. You just have to know how to move past it."

And that's my problem right there. I'm stuck; sinking sand and glass cages.

She takes my hands, support in the form of steady palms. "Do you know what you want?"

_Do I?_

I look away, down to the pristine floor that is now home to a few of my tears. "I think so."

"Then go find it," she urges. "Your father and I... we just want to see you happy."

Her words twist and turn inside me, dizzying cartwheels and candy on a stick.

I don't tell her it's not that simple. I simply pull away with a kiss to her cheek as something becomes overwhelmingly apparent: I can't stay here anymore. I can't continue to put them through this.

My parents have their own lives to lead, and I don't want them to forget about theirs while worrying about mine.

I have a house that is no longer a home, and at some point, I'm going to have to go back. Whether it's to stay or pack up what's left of my life into cardboard boxes though, still remains to be seen.

I know where I'm going and what I want to do; I know I want to talk to someone true and fair and on the outside looking in.

I grab my coat and forget my car keys, needing the short walk over to the Cullen house to gather my thoughts.

The wind is fierce, pulling me every which way, and it feels like my emotions are caught up in the elements, testing me and giving life to what I feel inside on a daily basis.

I pass neighbours I haven't spoken to in years as they secure their mailboxes and walk their dogs, hoping the smile I give in return matches their own. But by the look on their faces, I don't think I quite succeed.

I used to make this trip almost daily, and I know it like the back of my hand; maps embedded into skin in invisible ink. But I've never felt like I do now. And so this time, it's different.

I don't think about what I'm doing, I just walk, the need for answers pushing me forward. The wind further picks up and darkness falls, and just as I'm nearing the driveway that leads up to the Cullen house, all pebbled stones and pristine hedgerows, the heavens open and rain begins to fall.

Part of me wants to pause, take a breath and tilt my face to the sky as I attempt to calm, attempt to clear, but instead my pace quickens, all slippery soles and clumped lashes as the rain clings to my face, unforgiving in its free fall.

Light beckons, a reflected wall of glass becoming my very own telescope as it parades the scene beyond; carnival screams and mania as lines blur.

And the view I'm met with is everything I've feared and everything I want to forget.

Pain travels through me, poison to the bloodstream, and I'm waiting... hoping for the moment when it all just _stops_.

A room illuminated with light and smiling faces becomes the worst kind of greeting card, reminding me of everything I no longer have and maybe never will—a room filled with _love _as I stand here all alone in the freezing cold.

My heart begins to beat along with every stab of pain I feel pierce through my skin, tiny pinpricks that cover every inch of me as I watch my breath cloud before me, all white smoke that momentarily shrouds this picture of perfect agony. I should be worried at how fast it's coming, at how fast I'm drawing in breath after breath, but I'm instinctively trying to block this display as my eyes become traitors,_ stupid,_ refusing to clamp shut and _protect_,_ protect, protect._

My muscles turn to stone as my limbs stop moving, breaths shaky and vision blurred as the rain continues to hammer from the sky. It's like everything I've been feeling has been poured into this one moment; all my anxieties on display in the cruellest of ways. I've never been that girl, never had the full attention of a room. I've never wanted it, always shied away from it, but looking at a face with eyes that I imagine shine in the best of ways as company is shared, I've never wanted anything so much before in my life.

Edward is at the head of the table—Kate on one side, Emmett on the other—and Rose is beside him. They're all connected in the same way. They all appear _happy_. And if I thought he'd be alone, I was so, so wrong. In fact, I didn't even envision him here at all.

I watch brown locks and expressive hands and try to imagine myself where she's sitting, try to imagine what it must feel like to appear that wanted again. But I can't.

I thought he'd need time to himself, at least for a little while, because the very thought of pretending this way is inconceivable. But seeing him here, at his parents' house, interacting in a way I haven't seen him do in so long brings about a hurt and guilt that instantly smothers. It becomes apparent that perhaps there's no pretending at all.

_Has he really been that unhappy with me?_ _When did I stop making him smile?_

I think back to when the problems first began, to all those long days and tired remarks, to all those jealous looks and bitter silence. We argued, and ignored. We hurt and fought. But did we ever just sit and talk? I'm not so sure. And if we did, they all turned out the same way.

How do you fight for something that was never meant to turn out like this? How do you get up morning after morning with renewed vigour when the depression you feel threatens to bury you alive?

You get shot down time and time again, gun wounds straight to the heart, making it impossible to continue.

Nothing was ever good enough, both ways. Nothing was ever enough _in general_. Cruel and desperate and cries that tore at your throat, black veils and dewy mornings spent crying over something that should never result in tears. They all took their toll. They all _matter._

You never think life in general will be to blame. You never think that the smallest things will strip you of everything you once had. There has to be this big moment that changes it all. There has to be that driving force to split you down the middle. There _has_ to be. Because how can anyone survive this otherwise? And when did life get so hard?

We let it become too much, not enough; i_gnore, ignore_, hate, tears. I let myself become a stranger. And I watched as he became an even bigger one.

I want to turn around, _need to_, but when I finally think my feet will move, green eyes zero in on me, an arrow fired to its target, piercing me straight through the middle, straight through to _red_.

No one notices his diverted attention, no one notices me but him. The others fade to nothing as I become rooted to the spot, ivy that ensnarls, trapped in a snow globe of despair as the rain continues to fall all around me in a garden full of black.

I can't make out his expression from here, and wonder if he can see mine. I wonder what he feels right at this moment. I wonder if he even sees me at all. But that question is soon answered as he turns away, and this time I'm the one that disappears.

I tear myself away, my body finally recognising the need to protect itself. But I don't know where to go, where to escape to. The weather has worsened, and darkness cloys to everything in its path, making it impossible to turn back.

My legs threaten to crumble, but I grit my teeth, determined not to fall apart right now. My clothes are soaked through, sticking to my skin, and I begin to shiver, frustrated and scared and suddenly exhausted. I feel helpless, and hate it, because I'm not that person. And yet I am. I must be. Because I'm not dealing with this whole situation. I'm not coping at all.

A noise startles me, shoes crunching against the gravel from behind, and I'm not as invisible as I thought.

His shirt starts to change colour, light blue becoming darker as the deluge continues, little droplets of expanding ink on cotton.

All thoughts vanish, and I want to go along with them, hating that they've left me behind.

We're chess pieces on a board, waiting for the first move, and in the end, it's him that makes it.

"Come with me," is all that's said for now as a hand encircles my wrist, and I go all too easily, his touch some sort of fire to my ice.

We walk around the opposite side of the house, away from painful glass reminders and up a set of steps that lead to a room that holds too much of _us_. If he feels my hesitancy, he doesn't let it stop him, and soon doors are open and I'm in a different kind of darkness.

His touch leaves as lamps are switched on, illuminating the room in a warmth I don't feel right now.

"What are you doing here, Bella?" he questions, levelling me with his gaze. And part of me never wants to leave.

"I came to talk to… Em," I say, watching as his brows furrow, as small creases form in the middle.

"You came to see my brother," he repeats, looking away from me to the darkness beyond.

I flex my fingers, trying to alleviate the _numb_. "I didn't know you'd be here... I'm sorry."

"You didn't want to talk to me?" he asks instead, standing a little closer than before. I had the best of intentions, but standing before him changes everything. It doesn't feel like I'm ready.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the urge to look around me. "Edward," I start, taking a quick, deep breath, "You stopped talking to me a long time ago."

I exhale, hating how weak my voice sounds against the rain that drives against the glass; a volley of angry little teardrops—an unrelenting torrent that momentarily drowns out everything but _sight_ and _touch_ and _taste_.

But there's no _touch_, no _taste_; there's simply green eyes in a land of grey and expressions that threaten to tear me apart.

"That's not true," he replies, brows pulling together again as heavy swallows are taken. "You just stopped listening."

I shiver and hurt, and hastily wipe the residual rain from my face, his gaze following the movement of my hands the whole while. We've had this same argument time and time again; a record playing over and over, broken in so many ways—the accompanying needle is still just as sharp and painful as it was that very first scratch and I can't hide the resulting wince.

I close my eyes, resisting the urge to find warmth somewhere that no longer exists. I want to press my face into his chest and beg for arms that used to hold me without needing to ask. I want to reach out and smooth my fingers over his face, his hands, the lips and cheeks that I miss and crave far too much. Weights are pressing down upon my heart, trembling _red_, and I don't think I'll ever stop feeling this... ever stop wanting all these things. Even when I know they're no longer mine to take.

"I'm listening now," I tell him, feeling a kind of desperation inside of me that scares me more than I want to address. But I know I listened. I was _there_, day after day, waiting for anything from him; a look, a smile, a word. _Anything_. And all I was left with was disappointment and a hole in my heart that continued to bleed.

I think I've shocked him, but he still doesn't give in. He still wants to hide from me.

"But maybe it's too late," he says lowly, gaze steady, right at me, filling me with empathy and passion and a smarting ache; emotions that completely overwhelm.

His honestly results in a pause, my words dissolving on my tongue, swallowed whole like a pill.

All I can hear is _too_ _late_... and I swear my heart stops. No beating. No love. Just a dizzying silence that causes a ringing in my ears. Time is nothing as I try to look away, desperation and hopelessness a black veil covering my face.

"Maybe you're right, and I've changed." He pins me with his gaze. "And maybe you have, too."

Something twists inside of me, a reminder that it's more than a _maybe_.

I want to ask him if this is a bad thing, but deep down I know the answer to that. We wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't.

There are dark circles beneath his eyes that match mine, purple like bruises. And Em's words come back to haunt me. _I'm worried about Edward._ He still looks so heart-stoppingly beautiful to me, but maybe I'm biased.

A little bit more of me cracks inside as I look back at a man who has shared the most important parts of my life. He's been involved in them all, and fills my whole entire heart with just one smile.

But I don't think I'm that person for him anymore. And I don't know how to be that person again now.

I want to be, though. I want to be that same girl who made him smile; that same girl who made him laugh.

And more than anything, I want him to give me that look that will tell me everything is going to be okay.

"Are you happy, Edward?" I ask, body trembling, all frozen fingers and ice. The question comes from nowhere, or maybe it's been building all this time just waiting for an out.

He stares for the longest moment, silence suspended above our heads, ominous like rainclouds on sunny days. "No," he answers, all dark lashes in a sea of green.

I blink, and force breath into my lungs. "Do you want to be happy... with me?"

And it's out there, and I can't take it back; the panic coursing through my veins causes my heart to race.

I've shocked him, caught him off guard, and maybe I've stunned myself a little, too.

He doesn't answer though, and my heart crumbles, falls to dust; powdered sugar dyed a striking red. But there is nothing sweet here, it's bitter and pain and an ache that lets you know you're alive when inside it feels like you're dying.

My chest hurts and strains as I try to act normal, act strong. But there are pangs at the base of my throat, and my eyes burn and sting, all wanting-to-flow hurt and saltwater lakes.

"I just need you to be..." he stops abruptly, eyes leaving mine as they press shut.

"Be what?" I ask, shivering. The wind continues to howl, cries into the night, controlling the branches on the tree outside the far window as they snap wildly against the glass, almost at one with my own need.

"You should get dry. You'll get sick," he answers instead, instantly shutting me down. The moment is passing me by, the mist clearing, and I want it back.

I shake my head. "No, Edward, don't," I plead, trying to reclaim his gaze. "You need me to be what?"

I know I sound desperate, but I don't care. He's backtracking, I can see it in the way he eyes the door, and I want to scream for him to look at me. To _stop_. And maybe I do, because green eyes are suddenly on me once more.

He studies my face, lips licked as he searches for whatever it is he wants to say. And I think he finds it.

"You once told me you forgot how pretty my smile is," he starts, my own words rolling through my head as everything fades but him, as everything screeches to a halt like rusting wheels on a track. "But I can't even remember what yours looks like."

My throat constricts, and my eyes begin to fill.

I've forgotten, too.

But there's one smile I haven't. There's one I see far too much of late.

"Why is Kate here?" I ask, swallowing back tears and a cloying hurt as her presence becomes apparent once more. She's my sore point, my _everything I'm not_.

His lips part and I'm breaking inside, because I've forgotten what they feel like, too.

"I didn't know they were going to be here," he says, walking over to the chair in the corner of the room where he picks up a once forgotten towel. "I knew my parents were going to be away, and needed to—"

He stops, but I don't ask him to finish this time. I'm not sure if he's lying or not.

"Are they staying here, too?" I wonder, hating the very thought of the two of them under the same roof together. Innocent or otherwise.

He swallows, and his eyes flit to the door. "I think they were going to, but... maybe not now."

"Because you're here," I finish. And it's not a question.

He nods.

"So the other house... it's empty for a few days?" I question, breathing heavily.

His gaze burns, sunrays that kiss every inch of my skin. "If that's what you want," he voices, his tone devoid of all emotion.

"This was never what I wanted, Edward," I breathe, shaking my head. How can he think that?

I hate the part that comes next, but I know it has to happen. "We need to talk... about what happens now."

He looks away, and I'm so cold my teeth begin to chatter. "Not tonight," he replies, and I want to ask him to stay with me. "Not with the others here." And it hurts that I'm not a part of them. I've become exactly what I came here looking for; an outsider.

I nod and glance outside; I can't find the stars, even they've deserted me. "I should head back home... speak to Em a different time."

His reply is instant. "You're not going back out in this." He stands in front of me, the towel in his hands pressed into mine. "Just stay here for tonight."

I watch as his hands drop to his sides. "I can't," I whisper, false hope blooming inside my chest.

The sound of a deep breath before, "Why not?"

And I pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger, "Because it would be too hard."

He frowns as his hands find purchase in his pockets, his shirt moulded to his skin, giving me glimpses to what I already know lies beneath. "You can stay in here. I'll take another room." And I instantly want to ask with whom.

I shake my head again, feeling so, so much. "You're everywhere in here," I whisper, noticing the music on the shelves and the unmade bed. I see young faces and smiling kisses and touches that say everything. And I want to run.

His eyes flash, something I can't quite catch. "And that's a bad thing?"

_No. Yes_... My words are coming out wrong inside my head. "For now it would be," I eventually answer.

He doesn't show me anything this time, but then maybe he didn't before. Maybe it was simply me hoping for something that's no longer here. "No one should drive in this, let alone walk," he says, the sound of the rain driving his point home. "No one will bother you, if that's what's stopping you."

That's not what frightens me: loneliness is like an old friend at this point. It's being so close to you when I no longer have you that's tearing me apart; torn paper floating downstream, the words eventually bleeding, blue tears as ink meets water.

"Do they know I'm here?" I ask, fisting the towel so tight that my knuckles begin to ache.

He pauses. "No."

"Oh."

He's back to watching, gauging for reactions I don't want to give him. "And unless you want them to, they won't." His voice lowers, and I get caught up in his stare all over again. "You know that they won't be able to hear anything from this part of this house," he adds.

And this time I _have _to look away, because I know what he's referring to. Nights spent in this very room unbeknownst to his parents... unbeknownst to mine, too. Skin and touch and _faster, please_...

"Okay," I breathe, ignoring every part of me that screams against it. "I'll stay."

He takes a step back, which soon turns into another as he turns for the door. His need to leave is apparent, and it answers every question I still have. "I'll... see you tomorrow."

I don't say anything more, I simply nod, because I'm not sure I can speak right now—everything feels too raw, and I'm afraid I'll breakdown if I try.

The door closes behind him, and I immediately start to panic, to over think. I'm torturing myself by being here, because nothing has changed. And I'm starting to think that nothing ever will.

I look around me, every item soon becoming tied to a memory. I smile at some, hurt at others, and run my fingers over books that he would read to me over and over.

I open his closet, searching for something dry I can change into, when I spot a suit and tie in a smaller size than what he is now.

My heart takes flight, the action bringing forth memories I don't want to be bombarded with right now. But I can't command them, and they hit, destroying everything in their path; barren trees that burn to the ground, leaving me with nothing but smoking ash as my pain becomes evident for all to see... smoke signals written in the sky.

**~CitP~**

"Shhh," he whispers, finger to smiling lips as he closes the door behind us. My feet hurt, and my dress is a little wet at the hem from running through the grass in bare feet, but I feel light and so happy in this moment that I don't care.

"Are you sure your parents won't hear us?" I ask, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

I lied to my Mom and said I was staying with Jessica, and she in turn told her mother she was staying with Angela. It's a rite of passage, sneaking around after prom. And one that I never thought I'd partake in. Let alone _want _to. I think Renee knew I was lying though, but she didn't say anything. She's letting me have this moment, and my resulting smile must have said it all.

"No," he assures, taking my shoes from my hands as he sets them on the floor. "We're fine."

I nod and put my hands behind my back, fingers twisting together as my bottom lip becomes caught between my teeth.

"So," he smirks, coming to stand in front of me. "What do you want to do?"

I can feel the blush rising to my cheeks as I attempt to look away, but then his thumb is against my lip, pushing down until it's free. "I don't know," I breathe, knowing exactly what I want to do.

His blinking seems lazy, his pupils bigger as his hands find my hips. "No?" he whispers, his mouth brushing against the edge of mine, setting off sparks that tingle.

I shake my head, lashes fluttering as he pulls me closer, flush against his chest. I can feel his heart beating crazily beneath my palm, and I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling a little nervous. But this time, it's for different reasons.

He's suddenly serious, green eyes intense. "You know I don't expect anything, right?" His voice is low, soft, no hint of falsity present. "We can do anything you want. Watch TV, sleep, play a few games of chess..." His smile is back full force.

I focus on the buttons on his shirt as I reply, deciding to tease him right back. "Chess sounds good," I say as seriously as I can manage, peeking up to see his eyes glint.

"Is that so?" he murmurs as he starts to unknot his tie. I watch his fingers, a little unsteady, but mostly confident. And I know all too well what they can do.

"Or sleep. I am a little tired," I say, unconsciously glancing at his bed.

I can feel the full force of his gaze as he shrugs his jacket from his shoulders and down his arms... and my hands suddenly want something to do. But I have no jacket to remove, no shoes to slip off—just a blue dress that begins to feel too tight.

"Bella," he voices, fingers under my chin until I meet his eyes. "I'm serious. Anything you want."

I take a deep breath and lick my lips, fingers twisting buttons through holes as I free him of his shirt. "I'm fine," I reply, and this time I mean it. I think. But then his mouth is on mine, and I _know_ that I am. This is Edward: perfect, sweet, and mine. He'd never hurt me.

He pulls back and searches my face, the look in his eyes and expression on his face causing my pulse to race. "You looked beautiful tonight. Did I tell you that?" he murmurs, pushing my hair from face.

I wrap my hands around his wrists as his thumbs stroke my cheeks, and get lost in green. "You did. Three times already," I whisper, engrossed in the feeling of his skin on mine.

He looks back and forth between my eyes, and I'm his, completely. "Well, now you can add another... and another," he promises as he whispers _beautiful_ against my skin over and over.

He sets me on fire, the good kind of burn. "Edward," I exhale, fingers on stomach muscles that contract at my touch. "I want to." And I feel his breath hit my neck as he stops kissing, lips simply hovering.

"We can wait—"

"No," I interrupt, chest heaving. "I'm ready."

"It's still early, so we could always play that game of chess first if you really wanted to," he smiles, all crooked and teasing as one side of his mouth lifts slightly higher than the other, but his eyes say something else, and I'm starting to think maybe he doesn't want to.

"If you don't want to..." I let off, trying to shift out of his hold, embarrassed and unsure.

He laughs, low and breathy. "I'm a _boy_, Bella. Believe me, I_ want_ to," he assures, his cheeks turning a slight pink.

And I feel mine match in response. "Okay."

He watches his fingers slide down my neck, and I'm completely spellbound, magic and pleas that glitter.

I reach behind me, deep breath taken as I find and pull on the zipper, urging it down as my dress starts to fall. It lands at my feet, and even though I've been mostly naked in front of Edward before, this feels different. His eyes don't leave mine, not once, and for that I'm grateful.

His hands are back, but so are mine, and every inch of skin feels his touch even though he's simply framing my face.

He looks nervous, lips parting as his forehead falls to mine. "I love you. Did I ever tell you that?"

Everything suddenly seems quieter than before, and no, Edward, you haven't.

I need to hold, to ground, fingers fisting waistbands as my whole being feels like it's swaying. "No," I breathe out, chest against chest, hearts adjacent... and mine feels like it's about to burst.

"It's true," he professes, soft and caressing, silk confessions that make you feel so, so special. "You were mine before you knew it."

His hands curve around my hips as unexpected tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I want to wrap my arms around him and never let go.

I've wanted to tell him for months, but held back; scared he wouldn't feel the same, and so incredibly happy that he does.

I don't know why I don't say it now. Because I feel it, so much it's like I can't breathe. Words don't exist as my throat closes up, connected in a sense that doesn't feel real.

He pulls his head back a little, his features clearer, but I hold tighter, refusing distance that results in soft smiles and eyes that adore.

I want to say so much, but am quieted by kisses, one after the other as we sway to soundless notes.

But it doesn't matter.

Because the only music I need is the beating inside my chest. Singing just for him.

**~CitP~**

I don't remember when I'd decided to sit, knees to chest inside the closet, comfort and protection.

I don't remember finding old cotton that smells just like him.

And I don't realise I'm crying until I feel tears trickle across the bridge of my nose to bare knees, creating my very own live piece of art; watercolour paintings in red and black as I breakdown for all the lost _everythings_.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter. :)**

**Still with me? :/ lol**

**My rec this week is one I've rec'd before, but I love it, so please to be reading 'Pocket Change' by aWhiteBlankPage. I love her lots.**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**VHL xx **


	11. Make This Go On Forever

**Hey everyone! Thank you so much for sticking with these two. I know it's not always easy to read, especially for those of you who have gone through something like this. Your PMs are both touching and heartbreaking.**

**Huge thanks as ever to Susan for correcting my mistakes. Apostrophes are the devil. And to Judy for pre-reading and always finding time. And to Jen for her little additions that always make me laugh.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. It's a good thing I've been spelling her name correctly all this time, right? ;]**

* * *

Bella

Mornings bring doubt and despair; aching bones and a tiredness that seeps through my pores. I can feel it, cloying and unforgiving, all sticky toffee that adheres to my skin. And I want to shake it off, twists and turns and movements that scream of a gracefulness I don't possess; a complete contradiction to the heaviness I feel inside, lingering like ominous rain clouds ready to weep.

There is no soft bedding, no empty sides of the bed or sheets that smell of _just _him. There is only muted darkness and a shifting cold—a collection of painful reminders that blur and pattern my skin.

Time means nothing, minute hands that spin in endless loops as I wait for that first crack of light—that first sign of peaceful comfort that is nothing but a blinding lie. And it comes, silenced gold that spreads throughout the room; dust motes that look like glitter and suspended halos that breathe life into a space that is already full to the brim: photos and journals and worn-in baseball caps that would always end up mine by the end of the night.

My back aches and chest hurts, muscles taut and stretched, hours of bitter tears and shuddering breaths; my own stupidity, my own stubbornness. I woke alone, disorientated, carpet fibres imprinted onto my cheek, and I shouldn't have stayed... I should have _run_. The same as he did the night before. But I'm here and hurting and wishing I wasn't any of these things—wishing I was away from this house and the situation I find myself in.

I bring my knees to my chest, steady breaths and e_scape, escape, escape_. I don't want to face this: reality and answers that have the potential to destroy, wildfires that leave nothing in their wake as they burn everything within reach. But I'm here, trapped, old chests with steady locks, keys forgotten. Hidden. And it feels like I have no choice.

Everything is too quiet, and the only sound filtering around me is the harmony of my own soft breathing—the very same sound I eventually fell asleep to in the early hours this morning, all handwritten lullabies and snowy down-filled cotton.

I don't know when being alone became such a comfort. I hate it—that I'm used to it, that I expect it—hate that it feels normal. It never was.

There was a time I'd spend my days with a boy who cared about me, a boy who showed me what he was feeling.

He was never good at hiding his emotions, my very own animated picture book, but it didn't mean he wouldn't try. He did, all the time, gaze withdrawn and back turned, the perfect picture of avoidance all wrapped up in a new suit and brushed down hair.

He'd tell me I was better—better at keeping things inside, better at hiding secrets. But how can you be better at something you don't even realise you're doing?

That's all changed now though. Now he's the master of a blank canvas, white brushstrokes on an already colourless piece of fabric. And I guess he grew up, no longer a boy with only one concern. That concern being _me_.

My eyes drift as I stand, and I can see everything that I hadn't last night, darkness no longer eclipsing an old world. Bare feet hesitate for the briefest of moments before they move, temptation and trepidation a heady amalgamation as I step forward and run my fingertips over spines of forgotten books—over postcards and photos pinned to cork above his desk.

My vision glides across different features, younger faces, a conveyor belt of bittersweet reminders. And scenes that laid dormant, flutter to life as they flit through my head and zip through my veins, all dominant heartbeat and electric pulse.

My gaze falters on a couple, arms around middles as waves hit mid thigh, one head thrown back—silly fear and exultation—another's straight with eyes that worship. I trace paper lips, laughter captured on film, a happy afternoon frozen for eternity in colours that burst. _Blink _and I move on, progression stuttering all over again as I'm hit with lips against cheeks as others stay pursed, suspended over candle flames that look so real. I close my eyes, breath gathered and held before I let go, wish sent to the ether.

It's like I'm looking at a scrapbook of our youth, and the memories these snapshots provoke... they're all here, swimming though me like bubbles beneath the surface, little translucent spheres of life that glisten.

I'm about to turn away when my gaze falls on wrinkled leather, once favoured journals creased at the spines. He only ever used to let me read bits and pieces, the parts he was willing to share. Never what I wanted to search for. What I wanted him to divulge. But he's not here... at least _physically_. I shouldn't do it, I should walk away, respect his innermost thoughts, but what difference would it make now? Everything has fallen apart, tears at the seams of our life. There's no taking that away. So I take, greed and need and a masochistic fascination as I reach forward and pull, dust coating my fingers.

I would tease him sometimes, curious as to why he'd use a journal, and he explained that it was his way of expressing himself—musicians write lyrics, actors leave their own skin to portray another, artists paint, and everyone else simply wrote. I stopped teasing him after that, and even tried it myself once. But I didn't need to share my feelings with empty and ready pages. I showed them to the living instead.

I swear I can feel my pulse in my fingertips as I grip the book in both hands, a silent warning for me to stop. But I don't listen; I ignore and turn pages that are filled with scrawling words, ink-written murmurings of the soul.

There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the passages that stare back at me, simply puzzle pieces that have yet to fit together—random thoughts exported to paper.

My finger pauses on a particular segment, shaky breaths and goose bumps.

_She doesn't realise how special she is, always hiding behind her hair or smiles. It's what first drew me to her—her blushes, her silent communication. Every time she flashed those dark eyes at me I'd think things I shouldn't, imagine her hair spread out on my pillows, lips parted and flushed for different reasons._

My eyes squeeze shut, blood warming, my pulse crazy in my ears. He was always so generous with his touches, _always_, but they gradually began to stop and I was left wondering what had changed. What I'd done wrong.

I'd asked him once, near the beginning and he'd told me I was imagining things. But... _no, _I wasn't. I used to revel in those touches, the simple skin to skin contact as he'd kiss my cheek or hold my hand. And he'd stopped.

You notice those things when they're no longer there. They're all you can think about, and you go looking for them, initiating contact that gets you nothing but a weak and distracted smile—a cold layer of ice that coats your skin.

I turn a page, and another, brows furrowing as my eyes scan the next words in front of me.

_She has the biggest heart of anyone I know, that's so plain to see, so easy to read. She'll help anyone; do anything if you asked it of her. But when was the last time she did something for herself? Just for her? She's so concerned about making other people happy that I think she's forgotten to care about herself in the same way. I should ask her. Make her see._

I look for a date, a hint as to when this was written, but there's nothing, just negative space above a singular paragraph on an otherwise blank page. I swallow thickly and look away, pressing the journal closed with a resolute palm.

He never did mention this to me. Never did make me _see._

I don't know what that means, and part of me wants to find him... _ask_. But that's not an option. I'm not supposed to know this, not supposed to have gone behind his back this way. Or any.

My throat feels dry, thirst and a need for something I can't have resulting in hasty decisions. I find sweats that are too big, ends folded as I enter the hallway, meeting nothing but silence as I make my way downstairs.

The stairs are the same, soundless, tentative step after tentative step as my gaze drifts from pictures of everyone but me. But then that's not true, as one appears, and it's one that steals the breath straight from my lungs—suits and dresses and flowers clutched in nervous palms, smiles that made my cheeks ache and looks that made that feeling inside my chest swell.

My hand finds solace against my chest, except it doesn't, not really. I can feel the _thump, thump, thump _as my heart takes flight just like it did back then, soaring wings spread as far as they can reach. But this time it's for different reasons. Remembrance.

It's all there in a gilded frame, trapped beneath glass, taking me back to fingers that sparkled in the light; back to rain that danced in puddles at our feet as we swayed, utterly uncaring.

A series of blinks until it's another face I see.

A series of blinks until there's no turning back and all I can think is: _I'm getting married today_.

**~CitP~**

The face staring back at me looks just like me: same eyes, same nose, same mouth, yet it feels as though I don't know her.

She's wearing the prettiest dress I've ever seen, a dress I immediately fell in love with, off-white fabric with long sleeves and a lower cut back, small beading details at the sleeves instead of ordinary buttons. No veil. No hiding.

It's simple and exactly as it should be. Exactly right for _me_.

There was no trying on hundreds of lace finished bodices or taffeta lined skirts before I found the right one. It just happened, which was both exhilarating and frightening. A chance passing of a shop window, lines of dresses calling me inside resulting in the perfect dress. Unthinkable but true.

We've been hiding our secret for months, rings always transferred to a chain around my neck or a safe pocket whenever family came around. It feels so good to finally be able to see the end result; see the dress and the ring and once the doors open, Edward, too.

My pulse surges at his name alone and that nervous anticipation starts all over again, my eyes drifting to the clock by the door as I watch the minutes tick by, all stuttering heartbeat. It feels like I've had so much time to think, this past hour of waiting equivalent to years, and who gets what they want like this? You wish and want and suddenly someone grants it, no questions asked. The world isn't supposed to work this way.

I never thought I'd be that girl getting married at nineteen, that girl not long out of school and already so in love. But now that I'm here, I wouldn't change a thing, the phrase_ love conquers all _ringing truer than ever.

Nervous butterflies fill my stomach—my chest, my throat—and I can't stop fidgeting. My hands want something to do;_ I _want something to do. I want to see suits and smiles and say words that solidify everything I already feel in my heart.

This is right, I know it's right, but I can't help being a little afraid. It's scary doing it alone, no bridesmaids fussing over your hair or dress, no comforting words or teasing glances exchanged in the mirror. But then I remember who's waiting for me beyond a set of wooden doors, and those fears shift, cloud cover splitting down the middle.

A small part of me wishes my mom could have been here, but that would have had consequences neither of us were prepared to accept. And this is all too important to us both.

Doors open and a woman steps out, all friendly smile and short, blonde curls.

"You ready, dear?"

This is it, and I suddenly fear I won't be able to move, my heart hammering in thunderstruck avidity. But then my feet seem to know the way, as I find myself beside her, and all I can hear is that familiar music playing from inside.

My chest feels tight, and my breaths come harder, lump in throat and fingers gripping a bouquet of blush floral. My eyes glisten as I tell myself I'll be fine, and with one last deep breath I walk through, gaze low for the first few steps before it heightens and suddenly nothing else is important.

I can't take my eyes off him, and it doesn't matter that our family isn't here, that our friends aren't—this is our day, and he's the only one I need.

In a typical wedding it's all about the bride, all eyes turning back to stare at the lucky girl in white, but if they were here, looking at what I see, that would all change. He's never looked as good as he does in this very moment, black suit and matching tie, waiting for _me_. And it feels as if he's stolen my heart all over again, falling in the best of ways while standing on two feet.

The smile that spreads across his face as I meet his gaze makes me forget about every silly little worry I had. Because he's here. And I don't deserve to be this lucky.

I get to spend my life with a boy who loves me, who steals my breath in every possible way; who follows his heart and takes mine with him.

His hand finds mine, fingers entwining as I come as close to perfection as I'll ever get. His eyes roam, chest expanding as his lips part and lashes briefly flicker.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, secrets just for me, and I swear I don't ever want this moment to stop, this bubble to burst.

The judge's voice falls on deaf ears as I breathe, "You, too."

Rings are placed in the middle of an open book, and the words, _are you ready? _make my pulse fly.

"I have my own vows, if that's okay?" Edward interjects when it's time, and this shy smile graces his face, distracting me from the confusion I feel. He didn't mention anything beforehand, and I know I should be mad, but I can't find it in me to care, not now.

Left hand taken and ring poised, green eyes meet mine and he begins the sweetest words I'll ever hear.

"All that I am and all that I have, I offer you in love and partnership. You're my soul, my best friend, and I promise to honour and protect you; care for you until my last dying breath. I promise to be there for you, even when times get hard, and comfort you in times of struggle."

It's crazy, the feeling these words set off, like fireworks into the night sky. A wonder that appears never-ending. And this moment can never last too long.

"I'll spend forever trying to make you as happy as you made me the day you agreed to marry me. I'll spend forever hoping that I _do_. Everything that I have is yours," he says. "You're the very best part of me, Bella."

He pauses briefly, deep breath taken, eyes that pierce.

"I love you. Always."

His gaze is sincere and intense as he slides the ring onto my finger, happiness blooming inside of me, completely overwhelming as my eyes fill with unshed tears.

It's suddenly my turn, and I repeat when necessary, lost in green but meaning every word, especially when we get to those very best parts, when I get to push_ his _ring onto_ his _finger.

"I do," I whisper.

He smiles. "I do."

And seven words that change my life.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

He steps forward, palms framing my face as his lips find mine, no hesitation. And they're the same, the best, but this kiss is just the beginning of many others, the very first one in this new chapter. And I don't ever want to forget it.

He pulls back, soft smiles especially for me, and mine turns into happy laughter as he lifts me from the ground, staring up at me as my arms wrap around his neck.

His gaze is so adoring it's almost too much, and I think I'll have to look away.

"Finally mine, Mrs. Cullen," he murmurs.

I stroke his cheek and trace his lips, touch someone who fills in those missing pieces you weren't even aware were missing. "You already had me, Edward."

He carries me outside and sets me to my feet, looking the happiest I've ever seen him and my heart feels so full, ready to burst, all sunshine patterns in shadow.

"I love you," I say, reaching up on tiptoes to place a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth, his chin, his jaw.

Smiles that blind and, "I love you, too."

Light rain starts to fall, tiny pitter-patters at our feet as he takes me into his arms, swaying to a tune that only he can hear, lost and home and so very happy.

And it doesn't matter that it's raining, as I soon find myself beneath warm skin and fevered caresses; love and lust and beating hearts, kisses that steal my breath, joined in a different way to a ring on a specific finger. And still just as special.

**~CitP~**

I blink back memories, distracted by a noise coming from the very room I'm headed for. Part of me wants to turn back, in case it isn't him, but it's still early, and instinct tells me otherwise.

I descend the remaining few steps and turn the corner, hands clutched together as I tell myself to stop, pause, calm.

But what I see stops me in my tracks, ice seeping through my veins at the speed of light. Fingers on skin, near lips, removing traces of crimson sugar, eyes trained and unblinking. Touches so soft, the barest hint of fingertips, but it's enough—enough to shatter every last bit of false hope, enough to remind me I'm replaceable.

He's not returning her touch, her sentiment, it's just breakfast, but then he's not stopping her either. It feels like I've walked in on a private moment, one that is only shared between those in _like_... those ready for that next step. And it hurts.

Why hasn't he pushed her away? Can he not see this is more than a friendly gesture?

I must make a sound, I _must, _because the next thing I know I'm drowning in green and choking on tears I can't cry.

His gaze burns, vivid green that screams back at me as fires get lit within. There's no surprise, no guilt or hasty retreats, there's simply strained silence and steady holds—a resounding echo as I swear I hear my heart crack. It's impossible, that sound, but the feeling of it... that's all too real. Fragility and crumbling stone that gets blown away on a whisper, lips pursed into a deadly kiss.

I kept thinking... kept wondering if I would ever get to this moment where I'd see him like this with someone else; comfort and the sweetest touches that aren't hers to take. Gifts that used to be mine.

Her head turns, interfering distraction followed, and she's the one to react, the one to take that step as the smallest bit of distance is created.

She doesn't give me that coy smile or any of those other things that would suggest ulterior motives, and yet that sting is still here inside of me, thorns of a rose, all red imperfection as skin is pierced.

I hate her. I hate him. I hate fingers and lips and weak and pathetic hearts that want to weep, eyes that want to tear. The word inevitable begins to suffocate, to float, higher and higher like air-fired balloons as I stand in woven wicker and look down, one last farewell to something that I will always carry with me but have to cut loose. One last kiss blown to someone who let go of me long before I ever did.

And does she know... know that she already has him, know what this feels like? She can't, she doesn't. Otherwise she'd never be here touching something that her eyes want, that her heart craves. And it must... why else would she be here? She can see something that I can't, something that is driving her to be so forward when she _knows _he's already taken. But then she evidently sees things that I can, too. The outer package is unquestionable, that smile contagious, puppet strings that dictate. Can I blame her?

_Yes, it's easier. An escape. An excuse. Something to hold on to. Something to ground._

This moment would be innocent to eyes that do not know, but to me, eyes that _do_, it's the exact opposite, the other end of a rainbow, colours drained as you climb from one side to the other. It's intimate, gestures that are only shared between two that are connected. If you don't care, don't _want_, you don't react.

Forms have been tied, a familiarity like this doesn't just appear from the sky, puffs of smoke and tricks pulled from a hat. This isn't recent... whatever _this _is.

And am I brave enough to ask? Strong enough to withstand the answer? I want to close my eyes and click heels that glitter, slow motion rewinds that make sure every step back is the same as the one forward—take comfort in blissful ignorance as I tell myself I'll simply go home, that I won't get caught up in spinning funnels that destroy. I'll have no reason to care, to panic. But never to doubt. That's unavoidable, whether I bear witness or not.

I'm frozen, unsure how I'm supposed to react. Do I still have a say? The ring on his finger says I do, but does that really mean anything to him anymore? Does it to me? Instinct brings my right hand to my left and I twist metal that feels colder than usual... even more so when his gaze descends and abruptly stops, spectator to my inner turmoil.

I unconsciously begin to pull it forward, the space where it laid feeling exposed without it. _I _feel exposed without it.

It doesn't get very far though; my attention is captured elsewhere.

"You're up early," he announces, hands in pockets as hips get pressed against counters. He's all _nonchalance _in a wrinkled suit.

I want to be bitter, be cruel, rant and rave and accuse. But I don't. I take a calming breath, I settle. I take time to think.

"I've been awake for a while," I answer instead, separating my palms, watching as his gaze drops once again. "I couldn't sleep and didn't think anyone would be up yet."

This gets his attention and I watch as one hand finds his hair, fingers tensing against the back of his neck.

I don't know what his creased shirt suggests, a heavy contrast to her unwrinkled slacks and blouse, but it doesn't mean I don't stop looking for answers. I look down at my borrowed shirt and rolled up bottoms, so different to prim and perfect in cerise silk. She's not parading around in short skirts or tops that show skin—she doesn't need to. And I think that makes it worse.

She goes about finishing her breakfast, her features showing the same controlled expression as always. It's almost as if that moment was nothing, routine, seemingly not upset that I've ruined an opportunity for her. And was that what it was? She doesn't seem to react either way. But then she isn't giving me any attention either, focus elsewhere, pretense or an embarrassment that doesn't exist.

I can't get a clear read on her, don't understand her. So do I want to make a situation worse and demand answers about something as simple as breakfast? Am I seeing things I want to see, so caught up in a demise, that I'm looking for that inevitable _out _I seem to so strongly think is out there?

The whole time Edward does nothing but stare, and my anger and hurt finds a target, my ability to remove myself from a situation the only calm in the storm ahead.

He notices my retreat, watches it, but this time instead of letting me go, he moves and I don't want to do this in front of an audience, feet swivelling as I turn and try to escape. And I do for the most part. I'm just past that very same wedding photo from moments before when a hand clamps around my arm, a warm chest to my back.

My teeth grind, anger surging. "Get your hands off me," I warn, glaring at objects that can't feel my ire.

"Then stop running," he presses, breath warm against my cheek.

I can feel that burn in my eyes, but I refuse to let it come to anything—refuse to give in to basic desires. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore. And especially not right now."

He steps closer, chest now flush, "When did I ever?"

I laugh, a sound without humour. "I did everything for you. _Everything_."

"No one asked you to." Bitter words and winces I can't hide.

My head angles to the side, bringing his lips inches from my skin. "That's so unfair," I accuse, my hand moving to the one of his that has found purchase on my hip, my nails digging into his skin. "We both know I had no choice. You win. You always win."

His grip tightens around my waist, fingers pushing into flesh as he puts his lips to my ear. "No, Bella, I don't. Not always."

And love hurts, pane after pane of glass shattering, a steady stream of dying pieces.

I stare down at his hand, at wedding bands that lie. "We both know that's not true," I push out.

My heart is pounding, and I briefly wonder if he can hear it, feel it.

He says nothing and it's the same as it's always been, fights that start and get nowhere, nights where I can't see through the tears.

"I'm going to walk home," I say, trying to move away again to no avail. I'm not even sure how hard I really try.

"That's not your home," he replies, his voice devoid of any specific emotion. _It was... _is_ more than the one I share with you, _that's what I want to say. The words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to inflict to a man I'm not even sure can feel _anything _anymore.

I say nothing, eyes pressing shut against the battle wagering inside of me, his choices from before not in sync with his closeness of _now_.

"What do you want from me?" I ask shakily, wanting to pull and push and run. "I stayed last night, just like you wanted, and then I find you..." I don't finish. I don't even know what _that _was.

All I know is that I hated seeing it; hated the feeling inside of my chest. Hated that it was even a possibility.

"Stay with me this week," he says in a rush, or maybe it just sounds that way to me. Either way it shocks me into silence. "You said you wanted to talk... so _stay_."

I swallow heavily, hanging on to my emotions, invisible threads that tether. "I don't need to stay to do that," I point out, hating this game he's playing with me.

I feel his chest expand, deep breath taken. "No... you don't."

I want to lean back, sink into an embrace that feels more like a shackle. "Why now?" I wonder.

And words that confuse me more than ever, light stubble grazing sensitive skin as he answers in a murmur that sounds so loud. "Because you won."

He leaves me alone at that, retraces his steps, and I'm left alone staring at a progression on a wall of the man who controls my very being.

I pull away, back up, but I can't stop asking those silent questions even though he can no longer hear me, the ones that I'm too afraid to voice out loud.

_Can you still be that same person I fell in love with?_

And more importantly, _can I_?

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**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**And I'm feeling chatty. Did we all enjoy Breaking Dawn? **

**Also, my rec for this week is: 'Good Deal' by m7707. Read and fall in love with this fun and naughty story. It's short and cute and a perfect way to pass an evening. **

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	12. Ghost

**Hey everyone! Thanks so much for the alerts and reviews as always. I love and appreciate each and every one. **

**The biggest thank you to my fantastic beta Susan who drops everything for me at a moments notice. And for still being my friend even though apostrophes hate me... or I, them.**

**And huge thanks to the lovely Judy who pre-reads for me when I'm sure she has better things to do. I love them both.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I own a debit card that is about to become worthless once I click 'complete' on this Amazon order.**

* * *

Bella

Time freezes, worlds of ice and snowflakes suspended mid-fall. My hands squeeze into fists at my sides, a subconscious shift that tries to bring me back into the _now_. I don't know how long I stand and stare at empty space, nothing but white walls that make me feel further apart from everyone in this house than I ever thought possible... further apart from him; winter wonderlands without the wonder, and a false sense of calm that does nothing to pacify the erratically pumping red muscle inside of my chest. I'm confused and hurt and above all: so, so angry. My heart is pounding, all provoked drumbeats and crashing symbols that threaten to tear me down; paper masks shredded to reveal what lies beneath. And it's an even better illusion: pain disguised within a pale face, all nondescript features and evasive stares cloaked in dark lashes. It won't come as a surprise, no shocked faces reflected back to me in the mirror—I've had a lot of practice over the years.

I tell myself I'll move so many times, _leave_, the words inside my head insistent and full of a surety I don't possess. He doesn't get to influence me... but, _no_, that's a lie. Or rather the fact that he doesn't influence me at all, is. He always has, and I doubt that's going to change now, even if circumstances are different. I'd given him my heart; his happiness became more important... _he _become more important. And maybe that's a fault of my own, slapped wrists and marks that pink and vanish.

My lashes flutter shut, shaky breaths drawn as I try to rein in my emotions, windows closed to block out the stormy weather that lurks behind the glass. I want to shout and scream, break every single picture that lines the wall behind me. I can feel that hot sting of tears at the corner of my eyes, all bitter hurt wanting a release. He's left the hard decision to me as always; put all the weight upon my shoulders. _No_, and I'm the one who gave up. _Yes_, and I'm weak and foolish and risk the possibility of more hurt. Leave, stay, flee, sit: I want to sink. And for once I don't want him to hear my voice—for once I want him to hear _his _first.

I had made a choice, a choice I hated, but a choice all the same. My emotions have scattered, refusing to centre, amusement parks with too much to offer; too much distraction and misplaced fear... too many colourful lights. Nothing has changed, the same issues from before are still here now... and in some cases they're so much worse. I'm at a crossroads, signposts burnt to the ground, nothing but smoke that rises upwards, travelling somewhere I can't follow.

I finally get my feet to move, muffled footsteps as I pull back to a room that is anything but a safe haven. It is my very own purgatory, one that I both love and hate. But I wouldn't change it, not now. This was him, _us_, days spent in our own little bubble; in our own little world filled with teasing touches and expressions. And fights... there were fights in this house, too. Stupid ones—before rings were added to fingers, before we even knew what we were doing.

Before they could ever really last or hurt.

**~CitP~**

I cut the engine and close my eyes, loving the warmth on my face as the sun beats down and fills the cab of my truck with primrose heat. I kind of want to stretch out on the seat with my back to the leather and drift—bask in that stage between sleep and wake, the kind that makes you feel as if you're wrapped in cotton wool, utterly safe and content.

That is until a heavy hand smacks against the glass beside my head.

"I wouldn't stay out here too long with your pale skin. You'll turn into a lobster," Em laughs, and I smile, swinging the door open.

"I was thinking about it," I say as I jump out. The air smells like freshly cut grass, and from the green stains on Emmett's white sneakers, it's suddenly evident why.

"What, becoming a lobster?" he teases. He follows his words with some weird crab-like dance.

"Sure," I laugh and shield my eyes with my hand. "Is Edward inside?"

He snorts. "Yeah, he's in the kitchen I think."

"What's so funny?" I ask. He shakes his head but says nothing, simply giving me a wave as he drags the lawnmower over to a patch of grass he has yet to cut.

I go around the back as his parents aren't home, gravel kicking up under my feet as I walk. I can hear Edward laughing as I open the door, an inquisitive smile immediately gracing my face. That is until I see who he's talking to; the reason for the smile currently lighting up his face stops me in my tracks.

Alice and her friend are making drinks in brightly coloured glasses: ice cream floats by the items spread out on the counter.

Alice spots me first and gives me a weak smile. I reciprocate, and look away, feeling a little awkward. We've never been close, and that's okay. I don't get the impression she dislikes me, we just don't have a lot in common. Plus she's a little older than I am, so we don't run in the same circles.

Her friend is really pretty: mid length blonde hair that curls slightly at the ends, and I can't see the colour of her eyes, but if her smile is anything to go by, I'd say her eyes are pretty distracting, too. She's leaning across the island in the middle of the kitchen, her off-the-shoulder sweater she's wearing dropping low on her left arm, showing off her bra strap and a little cleavage. I don't miss Edward's eyes darting lower every now and then.

I look down and can't help feeling mousy in comparison, jealousy and despair rushing through me. I feel agitated, the sticky heat suddenly not so pleasant. I think about stepping back outside for a moment until both she and Alice leave—maybe go help Em with the garden—when Edward finally spots me standing here awkwardly. His smile doesn't leave his face at first, but it finally does as he realises just how far he's leaning toward his sister's friend. He immediately takes a step back, and she turns to follow his line of sight, her smile waning a little... or rather _a lot_. She has blue eyes.

"Hi," she greets, and I give her a smile and a hello in return. She looks me up and down before pointing to the three glasses set out in front of her. "Want one? I was just making, Edward here, one," she says with a point of a spoon in his direction.

"Um, no, I'm fine thanks," I say, and twist the ends of my own sweater between my fingers.

"Okay, let me know if you change your mind." She smiles sweetly, and starts scooping the vanilla ice cream into the glasses. Alice grabs some paper towels and then they're on their way, Edward's gaze lingering a little longer than necessary on the bare legs of... _whoever_.

"Hi," he smiles as he rounds the corner of the island, bending down to give me a kiss. I turn my face at the last minute, his lips brushing my cheek as my palms push at his chest.

He sighs and steps back to look at me, gaze drifting over my features. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Who was that?" I ask, referring to_ Blondie _who was here only moments before.

He shrugs. "Just a friend of Alice's," he answers. "Why?"

I lick my lips. "She seemed... _friendly_."

His cheeks warm, and I tear my gaze from his face, irrationally hurt and embarrassed.

His hands find my hips. "Bella?"

"Do you like her?" I ask suddenly, watching his face for any signs of a lie. I'm not sure I'd know it if I saw it, but I look just the same.

He rolls his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're jealous."

This time it's my cheeks that heat. "Do I have a reason to be?"

He pulls away and shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're being stupid," he says irritably, and while part of me understands it, another part of me reacts to it.

"You practically had your face in her boobs!" I accuse, my voice rising.

He scowls. "You're exaggerating," he says, turning his back on me. And it kind of pisses me off that he's dismissing me like this. Without thinking, I reach forward and grab the spoon still upright in the ice cream container, and flick a spoonful of creamy vanilla onto the back of his neck.

He jumps, cursing, his hand reaching behind him as his spins back around. My eyes are wide, lips parted, forming an 'O' shape.

He looks between the spoon and my face, his expression incredulous. "I can't believe you just did that!"

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, biting my lip as I feel a sudden urge to laugh.

His eyes narrow, and I take a step back as this dangerous looking glint fills his eyes. "Don't you dare," I breathe, knowing exactly what he's about to do.

His hand dives into the ice cream, and I squeak, attempting to turn and run, but he's quicker, and soon he's smearing _cold _onto my face.

Ice cream drips from my chin as he busts up laughing, and I run my fingers over my cheeks, gathering as much as I can as I reach forward and press the sticky sweetness over his face, too, grinning all the while.

He grabs my hands and licks and bites at my fingers before pulling me forward to rub his cheek over mine. I press my hands to his face, full on laughing at this point as I try to push him away to no avail.

"Don't be mad at me," he says, nudging my nose with his.

"I'm not, I'm sorry," I whisper, kissing his chin. "I was stupid... and maybe a little jealous."

His tongue touches mine, addictive. "No need. Your boobs are the only ones I want to press my face into, I promise," he smirks, and I blush, and smile, and get lost in his sweet kisses.

**~CitP~**

They were always silly to begin with, those first fights at that age, and always about the most stupid of things... until the years passed, subject matters more serious... and suddenly they were no longer that silly. And no amount of vanilla kisses and lips mouthing the word _sorry _from across a room could fix them.

And somewhere along the way I even stopped looking.

I take my clothes into my hands—damp and heavy, unforeseen forces trying to weigh me down—and watch as fingers reach out for the door only to pull back again moments later, a clear war forming. It's stupid... _I'm _stupid. Feet slide into shoes and I'm ready—ready to go home, ready to be brave. But I know that's a lie... it would be braver to _stay_.

Stay or go, fight or flight, boxing gloves and feathered wings; red and white and _decision, decision, decision. _

Do I have one? Have I ever?

I pace, cream carpet my own withered and rocky trail, hands over eyes as windows become the light that filters through the trees, spotlights that blind and pressure, a punctual urgency: quick, fast, faster. And I am lost in duplicates of the same—thin and silver birch, fingers that want to pry—until I fall back to the bed, defeated, shackled to this house; to him.

And he is a man, haunting my every waking step, invisible to the eyes but not to the soul. He is the fear that accelerates my pulse, the wonder that leaves me breathless. He is my recurring nightmare that I can't forget, the one that is no longer a nightmare at all: familiarity and dog-eared pages.

He is a ghost. _My _ghost.

And maybe I am his, too.

My hands fall to my sides, clothes to the ground, no longer weighted, yet no longer attempting to flee, either.

And I'm not sure I ever really was.

My focus lifts to the ceiling, to the circular pattern I've traced with my gaze more times than I can remember, white and dizzying spheres that spin with my movement.

I simply close my eyes and drift.

XXX

Fingertips to glass, I watch the early bird catch its worm, beak insistent, hungry for its find. I envy it its devotion; envy it its ability to fly away afterwards. The escape is so simple, so easy, gliding through pastel palettes of baby blue and fluffy white. The sun blinds as I look and follow, a shield made from spread fingers as I wince and turn, a new distraction for my eyes to focus on as shadows form on the gravel below. Car doors open and close, bags disposed inside with a click of finality. I step back a little and put the sheer netting back in place, a veil to the scene outside, replacing the one I never chose to wear.

I should pull away, the anticipation... the _fear _of being left alone in this house with him strangling me inside and out, metals cuffs on my wrists, my windpipe: both too tight.

I never thought I'd become scared of Edward. He was my bright spot, my soft comfort, all butterscotch candy on the tongue. He was my safety, the one person I knew would take care of me, no questions asked, safety nets lined with velvet pillows.

But dreams are there to be broken, and mine have been dispelled, swept away like a hand through a cloud of smoke.

Reality is so much harsher: the rope of net burns, angry marks that get worse the more you struggle. And it's impossible _not _to flounder, the desperation clawing at your throat like that of an angry lion out for the slaughter.

My gaze lands on two brothers, one with his hands at his sides, the other with his hands resting on shoulders I've pressed my lips to more times than I can count.

A lump forms in my throat as I remember the last time I pressed my lips to him like that, his skin warm and shower soft as I trailed telling kisses from one shoulder to the other.

He would normally relax under my touch, hands reaching back for me as he wrapped my arms around him from behind. But that time he'd tensed, and turned to face me, my heart skipping a beat as his hand found my cheek. His thumb had ghosted the area just below my eye, softly at first, until it wasn't, and he was pressing harder... not enough to really hurt, but enough to let me know this was different, and not _us_. His reaction had made my eyes water, but his touch was almost like a calming balm that kept the fears beneath the surface; that kept the tears from falling. And even now I don't know how to explain it, how to fully understand the feelings that bloomed to life inside me that day.

He'd stared at me for the longest moment, but I was too afraid to ask him what was wrong. I think it was because I _knew _and didn't know how to stop it either. So I just let him do what it was he needed, and when he'd dropped his hand and left the bathroom with a whisper of a kiss to that same area of my face, only then did I step into the shower and let the spray of water drown out the sound of my tears.

I never brought it up afterward; I simply went to work like any other day, and when he phoned later that night to say he would be home late, that he might stop at his parents so as not to wake me, I didn't argue back. I said _fine_ and murmured a _good night _down the line... but I was met with nothing but silence—he'd already gone.

It wasn't the first night I'd cried myself to sleep. And it definitely wouldn't be the last. But it was the first time I knew that things weren't going to be okay.

A muted laugh draws me back to the present, and I take a deep breath, reverie lost to the ether as I watch Rosalie laugh at something as she pushes against her soon-to-be husband's arm. His smile matches, big and bright. And it's too much to witness small exchanges that remind you what you no longer have, so I focus back to the two brothers, both so different: one lean and beautiful, the other stocky and just a half a head taller. You wouldn't think they were related at first glance, but if you looked a little closer, a little harder, looked at their expressive faces, their _tell_, that's when you knew they shared the same DNA.

And while one still has that same expressive face, the other's has waned, too stuck in his own head, thought overriding instinct. It feels like I did that to him, and the rush of guilt and despair I feel is overwhelming.

Their lips continue to move, but their words are silent, and I'm too far away, locked inside a tower waiting to be saved. But no one is coming, and this is just a room with a bed, _his _room, and I have to accept that no one ever will. Not now.

Emmett steps away only to become replaced with another, and while there is no touching this time, there are still looks—the same one from this morning that I don't think I'll ever forget shining prominently in my mind's eye. It's funny how this stands out amongst everything we've been through, something so _simple_. Maybe it's because it involves someone other than me and him—maybe it's because it was always just a _thought _before. But this time it's tangible, and while I can't grab it, or hold it between hesitant palms, I can _feel _it in my heart. And it hurts.

Brown hair swirls in the breeze, and maybe I regret not saying something to the woman who was touching my husband's face; maybe I should have reacted fiercely, tiger stripes and words that scratch. It brings about a case of déjà vu, though this is not the same: expressions scorched into wood, my own unforgiving memorial that I get to carry with me.

Suddenly there is nothing but a lone figure with his hands in his pockets, staring after a retreating vehicle, and I guess that's my cue. But I'm not sure if I'm ready to go out there just yet, not sure if I'm able to face my audience of one—not sure if I'm ready for what comes next. And part of me is terrified that I never will be.

So I simply look upon a man until he disappears from sight... not noticing how my own reflection falls away as I, too, retreat.

XXX

Night has fallen, songbirds absent for the evening as the stars play a game of hide and seek. One of Edward's journals rests in my lap; my fingers absently run across the leather cover as I simply sit and think. I haven't been bothered, no knocks at the door, and I don't know if his reasons are the same as mine, but I haven't been able to bring myself to leave the room.

A part of me is still angry: at him, at myself, at the world. It feels like I've been manipulated. But then I read sweet words ghosted on paper, and it reminds me that it shouldn't matter, that there is good out there somewhere, too. Whether it's meant for me though, I don't know. I guess that's still being decided.

I pull at the ends of Edward's sweats, and know I need to shower, and search for some clothes that fit better than the ones I'm wearing now, but the prospect of actually sleeping in his old bed tonight is crippling me more than I want to admit. I somehow think I can sleep here, in this very chair that looks out over the garden, all swaying branches and rustling leaves covered in shadow, darkness that threatens to break through the glass and swallow me whole.

I pull the book open once more, trying to find the page I left off at when I hear a door close and footsteps approach. I slam the journal shut and slide it beneath the throw pillow at my back, adrenaline coursing through my body like the choppy tide down at First Beach as it crashes against the cliff's face. And secrets just as precious as diamonds get hidden for another day.

I think he'll knock, or pause, something other than what he actually does. The door pushes open slowly and gazes instantly lock, mine I imagine surprised. I'm drowning, frozen, trapped in green as he leans against the wall, hands in pockets, the picture of casual. And I have to stop myself from fidgeting, suddenly sure he knows what I was looking at just moments before.

"You haven't eaten," he points out, and whatever expectations I'd had lurking at the back of my head dissolve like salt in water.

My eyes drop to the floor, falling leaves. "I know," I answer.

He sighs. "You should eat something," he says again, and I want to be bitter and childish and answer, _like you care_.

"I'm not hungry," I tell him, shifting in the chair as I uncurl my legs, feet now touching the floor.

"Is it really going to be like this?" he asks.

My head jerks up. "Like what?"

"You avoiding me," he presses, pinning me with his gaze.

I hold back a laugh. "I don't know," I answer slowly. "You're the expert on that front."

I don't know why I'm being so defensive, so belligerent... or maybe I do. I'm scared. And still hurting from what I walked in on this morning.

He watches me carefully. "That's not true."

"No, I mean, you don't have trouble avoiding _everyone_," I say with emphasis.

He straightens up a little, swapping his hip for his back as he leans against the wall once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I try to be brave. Or maybe I'm being stupid. I should close my mouth and just _stop_. But I don't. "I think you know."

His lips curve at the corners, but the smile isn't one of amusement. It's bitter and serious. "You don't know what you're talking about," he insists, brushing my statement aside, an action as simple as a flick of the fingers.

"What is she to you?" I ask, heart beating a rapid rhythm inside my chest. And he's staring... expression closed off. I don't even need to clarify who the _she _is.

He shakes his head. "Why are you bringing this up now?" he wonders. "We're supposed to be talking about _us_."

And he's obtuse.

"I'm talking about this because it's important, Edward," I say, trying to blink away the image of the expression on his face as she touched his. He hadn't looked distant or disgusted, no frown marring his features; no cutting stare that stripped her heart bare. He'd simply gazed down at a brown eyed girl who had diamonds in her eyes, all glittering adoration that carved me in two. Because that girl used to be me. "I'm talking about this because you've made it an issue," I add softly.

His face hardens, heavy swallows taken. "You weren't even angry," he responds, shrugging himself off the wall. "You said nothing... _did _nothing," and his gaze is deep and dark and green and levelled right at me. "You talk about my fight, but where's yours?"

His tone holds a slight edge, and it surprises me. He was too caught up in touches and eyes that weren't mine. And seeing him like this... he's the best at pretending, the best at making me second guess myself.

And doesn't he realise this shouldn't be something I should have to fight against?

I feel my skin prickle, little sparks of ire, fizzing sherbet and sparklers that pattern the night sky in a golden blur.

"I got tired of fighting!" I yell, hands shaking. "All day... every day."

His response is automatic. "And I got tired of telling you I loved you every day without any reciprocation!"

My mouth snaps shut, his cool composure forgotten, and I pause, shocked, throat tight and breath choking.

"I'm not a mind reader, Bella," he adds. And I think he's shocked himself too, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

His words thread through my head like beads on a wire chain, a Rubik's cube that makes no sense. "Your view on things is so twisted," I push out, full of disbelief. "You think I didn't love you?"

He stares, nostrils flaring as he tries to calm down, heavy breath after heavy breath. "That's not what I said."

I lick my lips. "But it is, you just said it."

His gaze drifts. "Well then maybe." He sighs, hands fisting his hair. "You became so unhappy, Bella. You stopped smiling."

And his words are true and painful. "Only because you did," I murmur. "What you feel, I feel."

We're forever tied, woven hearts made from string; if he unravels, so do I.

"And you think it wasn't the same for me?" he wonders, brow furrowed. "You think I liked seeing you like that?"

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "I don't know," I answer. "Maybe."

I watch as his frown deepens, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced, and sometimes I wonder if he did... if he still _does_. His silence and refusal to answer even the simplest of questions have been so cruel. He's left me to think the worst. And his attention to a woman who isn't me is just another nail in the coffin.

He shakes his head. "I made promises I can't keep. This," he grabs my hand, "was a promise. And everything I said, I meant."

And all I can focus on is the _can't_. Needle holes that stretch through fabric, bigger and bigger until I'm left with nothing but torn strips of something that used to be.

I pull my hand away, unable to carry on touching him after those words. Or maybe he drops it, I can't be sure. And I know all too well what promises he made, because I made them, too. Those promises linger, misty mornings sitting on the lowest branch, trapped in the fog... trapped in my very own snow globe without the falling flakes of ice. They are the ache in my muscles and the sting behind my eyes; the despondency I feel every time he turns away from me.

And is this why he wanted me to stay, to make sure I couldn't recover: dried petals crumbling to powder before scattering in the breeze, colouring the sky with my pink blossom hurt?

I hold it back though—I'm not sure I could handle the answer to that thought.

"And you don't now?" I push, referring to the second part of his statement.

The slightest flicker of lashes and, "Do you?"

And why must he always answer a question with another?

"We don't talk, Edward," I point out, watching his face, the way the muscles in his jaw tick. It's our biggest issue... and I'm not sure when we stopped—one day red lights just forgot to switch back to green.

His eyes flick to mine. And green is here now. "We never have."

I frown, my head disagreeing. "That's not true. We talked," I say. I remember the fighting clearly.

"Not about the hard things."

"Do you regret it?" I blurt, subject changed, race cars hurtling off course.

His brows meet, the smallest pucker of lips accompanying. "Regret what?"

I pull in a shaky breath. Courage. Talk. "Marrying me," I say, watching his face. We were so young. And this past year... we've been so unhappy.

I'm almost positive his eyes soften for the briefest moment, but I can't be sure. "Why would you ask me that?" he questions. And is he serious?

"You seem to be so outside of it all right now," I explain, clutching the sofa cushion underneath me with unforgiving fingers. "It's like I'm going through all this pain by myself and you're just watching—I'm floundering and scared and you look the same," I say. "So that's why I'm asking you... I'm asking you because you don't seem to care."

He goes back to his spot on the wall, silent as the moon, and just as blinding. I'm watching him watch me, anticipation coating my being like toffee over apple at Halloween. The Edward he is now and the one I was reading from earlier... they merge into a ball, fighting for dominance. I'm trying to find a place for them both to fit, trying to find where they both belong, but it's proving fruitless, both turning to particles of dust before I have a chance to catch them.

His lips part, shirt moving with his breath. "Do you want to fix this?"

I pause, not expecting this question—he's been so evasive of late, and it's going against everything he's presented me with day after day. Everything I've become used to. I bite the inside of my cheek and think; think about if I can truly take this again if it doesn't work out. And wouldn't it be easier to leave now? I know it's wrong to think we're going to fail, but it's hard to think positively in spite of all this heartache and adversity.

If he'd asked me only months before, I wouldn't have even had to _think_. My response would have been automatic, _desperate_. And while I don't really have to think now, either, I still kind of do. It's confusing and contradictory. Just like he is himself.

I'm scared,_ terrified _at the prospect of going through all this again a second time. But then my eyes meet his... and he's worth it. I know he is.

Aren't we worth it?

"Yes," I finally answer, battling against the emotions whizzing inside of me, Catherine wheels in the night sky. I keep it simple, Queen of Hearts close to my chest just in case. Either way the answer is still true—I want to fix this more than anything.

He swallows heavily, arms across his chest as he breaks my gaze. "Okay," he says, voice clear.

And that's it? No... _No_. "Is that want you want?" I ask, not giving him chance to run this time. He looks back at me, and I don't think I've ever felt so vulnerable, wanting him to say _yes_. Asking to be loved.

He frowns and looks away, and _this is it, _I think. He doesn't want me. But then his attention isn't diverted because of my words, or me, but rather due to the sound of my phone ringing on the bedside table. His eyes flit to mine, before he's moving, suspicious, and I realise I haven't spoken to my mom since yesterday afternoon.

His expression switches so fast, like the snap of your thumb against your middle finger, and I can't figure him out. I get to my feet at the same time he turns towards me, scared he'll see the journal I hope is still hidden behind grey cotton, legs wobbly from having been sitting for so long.

Looks and fingers that tighten, I watch, and so does he, and then I'm holding my hand out, confused at his reaction.

He places the phone into my hand, the softest touch of fingertips against my palm, shivers and warming cheeks. And suddenly the ringing isn't so important.

"You better get that," he says, tone hinting to something I can't quite decipher. He nods to my palm, eyes looking back up at me through long lashes against heavy brows, his gaze a flashlight that burns a hole straight though me.

I can feel the confusion on my face as my gaze drops, thumb already hovering. Then I pause.

He notices.

"I'll give you some privacy," he states, the slightest tightness to his jaw.

"I can answer it later," I say, but it's too late, and he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates, his back to me, hands on either side of the door frame, fingers tapping an uneven and uncoordinated rhythm against the wood. But then he's moving again, and I sink back slowly into the chair, exhausted, the hope from moments ago falling with me as I whisper a _good night _into the now empty room.

I look to the screen but don't pick up.

And the name Jasper continues to flash green as the call goes unanswered.

* * *

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**This weeks rec is:**

**'Footprints in the Snow' by cosmogirl7481. You will want to read this on the regular, which is perfect, as it's updating every day. Angsty good times.**

**Thanks so much for reading. **

**Merry Christmas!**

**VHL xx**


	13. Sparks

**Hiii lovely readers! ****Happy New Year! **

**I hope your hangovers aren't treating you too badly. If so, banana milkshakes. They save lives... sort of. ;]**

**The biggest thanks as always to my wonderful beta Susan and lovely pre-reader Judy. And to the gorgeous Jen for making me write.**

** Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

The funny thing about life is that you never know when it's going to change. Sometimes a moment will hit you when you least expect it, knocking the breath straight from your lungs, chest heaving and heart pounding as you try to rationalise what just happened.

I was drifting, sailing on that rip curl with nothing but the endless stretch of ocean in front of me, daily affairs that looked like life staring me right in the face. And yet something was missing—that cerulean water wasn't calming... wasn't _enough_.

I was a robot, my movements programmed as I switched from one task to the next, the actions ingrained as if someone was controlling _that _part of my brain—the part that told me when to move, when to speak, when to shift my hand from a bare flame and not get burned.

I was switched off.

Then the wave hit full force, utterly unexpected, and knocked me completely off balance.

My world tilted and body swayed, frantic expressions that turned into desperate fear: the damage became irreparable. And it's not only the things around me that fell—photos crashing to the ground as they lost their place on their hooks, china rattling forward off the top shelf as it dropped with a shatter...

But I did, too.

And it's impossible to hold on, arms out at my sides as I grabbed blindly at someone who wasn't there, catching up with that shower of china confetti that met me halfway in stinging shards like icy rain.

Chest expanded, and eyes blinked open, and I was staring _up, up, up, _legs twisted at an odd angle with eyes full of a pain I never dreamt could exist...

Until now.

That's how I find myself waking up alone, one mug pulled from the cupboard instead of two, alone in a house that holds just as many memories as the ones closed off inside my heart—that's how I spend my morning as I watch the kettle boil, steam blurring my vision. Or maybe I'm crying. I can't tell.

One is now the other, and I can't see.

I can't see.

And there are no arms to hold me as my tears run dry.

There's no one.

XXX

Weariness settles over my bones, thick and heavy like an unwanted blanket. I grip my mug between my palms as the morning chill kisses my cheeks with frozen lips, shivers that travel up my spine and disperse like an electric current.

Steam rises, its damp heat coating my chin as I bring the hot tea to my mouth. The sun is bright despite the chill, clouds hiding as greenery is at life all around me. And when did this happen? Spring is coming, new beginnings in bloom while mine continues to wilt, peach blossom turning to the colour of rust. Dying. And I am forever blind.

Thoughts of last night plague my waking moments, shadowy figures that creep from the worst breed of nightmares, the kind that finds you gazing at the ceiling at two in the morning with a racing heart and sweaty palms.

_Edward. Edward. Edward_.

He'd questioned what I wanted—questioned if I wanted to try and fix this shamble of what we've become—and I'd answered _yes_, slow and careful, holding back the desperation that pulsed inside of me like the blood in my veins. But when it came to my turn to ask him back—his answer something I coveted more than was healthy, a breathless anticipation—we'd been interrupted.

And I can't stop thinking about that, either.

Jasper rang just the once, no message left, and while I'm sure it was nothing important, I can't dispel the image of his name flashing across the screen as I waited for my husband to answer me.

It had passed at the time. Edward... he would always come first. Even now. But in the quiet moments in between, like this chilly January morning, it would sneak through the cracks, Jasper's name like a whisper on the breeze.

There's always been Edward. I've never had another boyfriend; never had another first kiss that really counted. It's just been him, all the time. And while I wouldn't have it any other way, a part of me can't help but wonder if we'd both be stronger if someone else had come before him. I would have had my practice run, would have known what to expect and how to respond to heartbreak and petty situations. I wouldn't have become so caught up in solely one person, especially the person who held my heart in the palm of his hand. I would have made smart choices... choices that didn't necessarily have to include him.

I both love and hate that our lives have been so entwined; it's given me something to remember, memories to cherish and smile over, even against the ache beneath my ribs. But then it's also why this has been so hard; why it feels like I've constantly been staring into night blindness.

He was all I knew at the time, all I had wanted to know, a shiny new penny that I couldn't stop admiring. And time hasn't dulled that, that glimmer is still there, it's just become a little hidden.

I'm not, however, Edward's first... _anything_. And maybe that's the problem. I don't know what I'm missing—maybe I'm subconsciously craving something I don't even realise I want. But _he _does. He knows there's something else out there... something potentially better: I can't help but wonder if that's why he's still so closed off.

And I guess he has choices, too.

My fingers find my hair, twisting at the roots as my gaze drops to the cement underfoot.

And then there's Jasper.

I don't know if I can call him a friend... I'm not sure what he is. He's just been there with a friendly smile and patient understanding without me even having to really say anything. I'm not even sure he knows Edward and I are having problems. Either way it feels nice... feels nice to have someone like that in my life again.

My friends from high school drifted to the larger cities after graduation, my plans to follow them dashed by devastating lazy smiles that tipped my world upside down. We catch up a couple of times a year by email, but it's not the same and always about inconsequential things, at least from my end. And when those personal questions arise, I simply lie, and type back that everything with me is _fine_, that awful word that is never true, relieved they can't see my face or the forced smile I would have to wear if they asked me this in person.

The breeze rustles my hair, strands swishing about my face as I bring my mug back to my mouth. It is distracting, hair sticking to my lips and cheeks, once hot tea falling over the brim of blue porcelain to stain my white sweater.

My gaze darts, looking for something to soak up the spill, and I'm shuffled back to a bench with hands touching an unfamiliar warm chest.

The moment had been awkward, held breaths and hasty getaways, and yet... somehow _intimate_. I haven't had anything like that in so long. And perhaps that's why the moment keeps playing over and over in my mind like a distant song on repeat.

Or perhaps it's something more; something that scares me, something that I don't want to address.

And as my gaze drifts to glistening white gold, I have to wonder... why do I continue to fight for something that brings nothing but a hopeless despair?

I want to turn away and close my eyes. But even then there's no reprieve, dreams infiltrated with upturned lips and a pair of eyes filled with so much light; happiness in the most expressive part of ourselves.

Don't I deserve more? Doesn't he? I want to be selfish and cling onto recollections gilded in starry gold and silver, but I hate seeing him just as unhappy. It tears me apart inside, a sad and sorrowful tale depicted in a slide show of pictures that begin to disappear, the development stage in reverse, fading to a blank roll of film ready to capture someone else instead.

My eyelids squeeze shut just as another gust of wind bites at my cheeks, and I hastily get to my feet, fingers tightening around my mug, looking for borrowed warmth... and maybe for something else, too.

But I'm good at ignoring. Good at pretending.

I close the door behind me, pausing for only the briefest moment as I stop and stare at the items on the shelves that aren't mine: patterned china plates that weren't a wedding gift to me. This isn't home... and yet here I am, living someone else's life.

I don't let the pain that accompanies this awareness distract me. I simply wash my mug, set it back exactly where I found it, and continue to get ready for work.

XXX

The bell above the door jostles, signalling my entrance with its piercing ring as it resonates throughout the space like dust being shaken from the pages of a long forgotten book, drifting through the air on a lazy wave. Weak sunlight tumbles through the double-fronted window, appearing in large rectangular patches between the bookshelves as I push the door shut behind me with the heel of my shoe.

I pause with the feel of the door at my back as I lean against it, the outside world momentarily shut out. I pull in a deep breath, an invisible weight lifting from my chest—I feel the most comfortable I have in days, cotton-like clouds shifting to show the gold tinged sphere in the sky.

This is familiar, and home, and holds no ounce of oppressing memories, good or bad. I shuffle forward and drop my bag on the counter, gaze assessing as my eyes travel over the loose sheets of paper scattered on the small desk attached at the back.

A gnawed at pen lid sits by itself next to the mouse belonging to the computer, alerting me to someone else's presence this past week.

I feel an irrational sense of irritation, of sadness; this building suddenly feels less like mine. Someone else has come along and left evidence of their attendance behind, stripping the last little piece of comfort from me like the tearing off of a heavily adhered band-aid. I grit my teeth and tell myself I'm being stupid, that I don't care about an inconsequential pen lid.

It's what that chewed upon piece of plastic represents that is bothering me.

The fact that someone has swooped in and _been here _when I wasn't able to face reality startles something inside of me; hands over hearts as a realisation springs to life, a too-pretty weed that wiggles through the cracks, gaze drawn and distracted.

It holds so much more meaning than I want to admit...

And maybe more than I want to address right now, too.

I take a longer look around, shoes tapping against the dark and aging floorboards as I alter things back to how I've always had them—how I like them—the need to_ fix, right, restore _so strong I begin to feel a little shaky. I slump to the chair behind my desk and hold my face in my hands, the voice inside my head that whispered I wasn't ready to come back to work painstakingly dominant. But then I couldn't stay holed up inside all those walls either, the need to take a break of any sort fundamental.

My fingers crawl down my cheeks as my hands drop to my lap, eyes drifting to that pen lid once more. With a swoop of finality I brush it to the floor and will myself to forget about it; will myself to forget about unanswered questions and stolen touches—invisible fingerprints that I swear I can still see.

I get up and switch _closed _for _open _at the heavy set door, the practised smile I attempt straining the muscles of my cheeks as I return the upturned of lips of the shop owner two buildings down when he raises his hand upon passing.

I pretend I don't notice how the smile wilts as I turn back around; I pretend I don't notice that a gum wrapper has somehow made its way into the potted plant beside the door.

I simply practice my smile once more. And wait.

XXX

The day passes too quickly, or too slowly, depending on whether it's my head or heart truly in control.

I return to empty rooms that are in no way sparse, the smallest amount of hope I had falling away like the leaves in autumn when I realise Edward isn't here. I'm not surprised, just disappointed—I should have known last night wouldn't have changed anything. It was just one declaration; a one-word answer from me, not him... he didn't promise me anything.

We haven't spoken since, but I know where he is and what time he'll most likely return—the stars will be out, car engines idle in driveways. I start to wander from room to room, my brows pulling together as I question if he'll actually come back. This was his reprieve when things went wrong, his escape from me. But I'm here at his request and he has nowhere to hide.

And surely he won't leave me alone; surely he isn't that cruel?

I don't want to worry, don't want to go through all this again, but I can't help it. Everything is still so up in the air, soaring balloons ready to be popped. He still hasn't told me what he wants and until then the anxiety that bubbles inside my chest like fizzy water is inevitable.

I pause at a particular piece of furniture that is nestled between the two curving paths of stairs on either side of the foyer, distant memories flickering like the bright flame of a candle as my gaze is drawn to black and white piano keys. My curiosity pushes me forward and I reach out with a steady palm, allowing my fingers to linger on the feel of the marble-like smoothness and outer ridges beneath their touch.

The notes are disjointed as I give in to temptation and press down hard, heart thundering at the noise that follows.

And pretty soon it's a different set of hands I see flying over the keys, playing much prettier music than the harsh and random notes dictated by my wayward fingertips.

**~CitP~**

"You're holding your hands wrong," he tells me for what feels like the hundredth time. "Here." And he's arranging my fingers on the keys.

He's been patient with me all day, softly reminding me when I've gone wrong—not once has he shown any form of frustration over my inability to play even the simplest of pieces. It's _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_... my neighbour's cat could probably play it.

I suppress a scowl. "I'm no good at this," I sigh. "I'd much rather listen to you play something."

He gives me a look that lets me know he doesn't quite believe me, which is funny as I'm being completely truthful right now. "Did you or did you not spend an hour begging me to teach you how to play before I agreed?" he points out.

I bite the inside of my cheek, stubbornness coating my tongue. "I did," I answer grudgingly.

He smirks. "Then that's what I'm going to do."

"Fine, Tchaikovsky, what now?" I ask with a raised brow.

He laughs. "Oh wow, I didn't think it was possible for someone to butcher his name like that. How wrong I was."

"Shut up," I mumble with a smile, cheeks warming.

A sudden glint forms in his eyes and then he's moving. He turns my head gently to face the keys as he settles behind me, the inside of his thighs pressing against the outside of mine.

"What are you doing?" I ask weakly.

"Helping you," he replies simply. His hands rest lightly at my wrists, fingertips against my pulse points, and it feels like I've forgotten how to breathe. My pulse races, heartbeat crazy inside my chest. "Breathe, Bella," he reminds me, his breath ghosting along my right cheek.

"I... know," I mumble slowly, accidentally hitting the wrong key. "Remind me, how is this supposed to help exactly?"

I feel his smile against my skin. "Why wouldn't it?" he questions. And he knows all too well why.

"You _know _why," I say. "You'll distract me."

He chuckles, hands moving up my arms, pausing at the crook of my elbow, all soft skin. "I'm not even doing anything," he protests. And he's a liar, too.

"Uh huh," I sound out. "I'm on to you, just to let you know."

He sweeps my hair aside, revealing skin that craves his attention, his mouth; lips and teeth and kisses that bruise. "Inspector Swan," he murmurs, trailing his warm lips to my shoulder, hands now grasping my hips.

My hands are shaking, concentration floating somewhere that isn't_ here_. My arms ache, my fingers wanting to play something else instead. _Someone _else.

And I forget all about black and white keys.

I swivel, climbing until my legs are now either side of _his_. My hands are in his hair and his are digging into my skin and it's perfect; his mouth is perfect.

I nip his bottom lip, tugging slightly. "Is this how you teach all the girls?" I breathe.

He licks over where my teeth have just been. "Obviously," he grins.

I smile and hit his shoulder, held in gazes that punish in the best of ways. "Kiss me," I tell him.

"I just was but you were the one who—"

And I cut him off, showing him just how much I've learned.

**~CitP~**

I'm pulled from my memories as the faint slamming of a car door registers in my ears, the sound hastily springing me back into the present like the snap of an elastic band.

I step away from the piano, an ache I push aside for later lingering in my chest as I move to peer through the window with a frown. I don't get very far before the door opens and Edward steps inside, his head tilted towards the floor as his eyes snap up to meet mine, seemingly surprised to see me here just as I am to see _him _home.

I immediately hold back a wince at my train of thought—this isn't our home. His maybe... but not mine.

I can't remember the last time he finished work before darkness had time to fall, a black cloak that did nothing to take away the ache that would hover like milky mist inside my chest, visible to me but hidden from everyone else.

"You're back early," I state.

He blinks lazily, keys jangling in fingers before he sets them aside. "It's five thirty," he says simply, as if this turn of events is normal. As if he does this day after day. "This is when I finish work."

He always appears so comfortable, so confident. I'm constantly left feeling envious and disheartened; wanting and humiliated.

I purposely glance at the clock, his gaze not following as I'd hoped. "You're back early," I repeat, and he isn't stupid. He knows what I'm referring to other than the obvious.

He turns away, hand pulled through hair as he sets his briefcase down on the side table with his car keys.

This is different and familiar... but not _too_ familiar. This awkwardness was never here before... _No_, I'd be in his arms by now, hands joined at the back of his neck as I'd reach up on tip-toes to press my lips to his, his hands a burning and solid cage around my hips and ribs, wandering fingers that always felt so good.

His fingers trace his bottom lip, or rather his thumb and forefinger do, squeezing inwards until his lip is pinching outwards just a little. Either way I'm like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. Or maybe he's the butterfly as I can't stop looking through the haze of conflicting emotions to the perfect symmetry of his features.

I want to ask so many questions, like, _why now?_ and, _what's changed? _but I keep my mouth shut. I don't want another fight; don't want to be the one to start it; don't want to be the one who ends up in tears.

I watch as he loosens his tie and steps further into the room, his fingers deft and precise as he makes his way into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator door open and close, my feet glued to the spot, and then he's back, almost as if he can sense I'm holding back.

He leans against the wall by the adjoining door, watching me as he comes back empty handed. "Have you eaten today?"

And is this all he's ever going to ask me? I know I've lost weight, but it's understandable. It makes me feel self-conscious... and I can't help feeling he's doing it on purpose.

It's funny how heartbreak will kill an appetite before it's even had time to build. I take a look at him and notice his weight doesn't seem to have altered.

"I ate earlier at work," I reply.

He brows furrow, but the movement is only brief. "You're back at work?"

I nod—what did he expect?

"I had to go back some time," I add. "It was only ever temporary." And the reasons for the _temporary _tear at my chest like the lashes of a whip, stinging red and breathless shock.

I bite the inside of my cheek and ignore the fact that he needed no time to ground, to breathe. Our marriage was crumbling, at its very worst, and he was business as usual; suits and ties and clicking briefcase locks. Pen in hand and _advise, defend, speak_. Just not to me. For me. But then everyone is different and the whole world can't crumble, too.

He says nothing more and I get caught up in green: fields of clover in summertime sunshine as dark and heavy blue skies lurk around the edges. He's my darkness and light, smiles and brooding stares, laughter and shouting words. Kisses and bites and utter destruction, both blissful and the kind that causes your throat to close up as you hold back tears.

The house phone rings, his body immediately tensing at the sound. Mine does, too. He's fighting the urge to answer it like I know he wants to, no doubt wondering if it's his boss. Maybe his parents.

And I'm sure his colleagues are just as surprised as I am that he's no longer sitting behind his desk.

"You can get that if you need to," I say. I feel like he's waiting for me to do something, but I don't know what that something is.

He gives a minute decline with his head. "I don't," he responds.

_But what if I want you to? What if I can't handle you staring at me like this?_

It's like he's sucking the very life out of me, and yet I don't move, don't break his stare... don't leave. I _can't_. My heart refuses it—it doesn't care, it almost welcomes the pain it knows it will feel. Its beats quicken, and that's _me_ doing that... _him_... and _I don't care, I don't care, I don't care_.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" I ask, and the words leave my mouth with a frown, my head seemingly caring while my heart doesn't. It's being smart, trying to protect.

And I'm doing that, too.

He's standing there in his suit still, top button undone, tie loose... and I'm an idiot. He won't want to. His eyes regard me with a steady intensity, my face the focus of his scrutiny.

"What are you looking at?" I question stupidly, defensive, my pulse ringing in my ears. I can feel my cheeks heat, uncomfortable with his attention.

There was a time I craved it... and maybe I still do deep down. I want to be okay with it, but after so much has happened, after so many hurtful words have been shared, I know he's not seeing the same girl who would pepper his face with kisses every morning: Just like I'm not staring at the same boy who made me the sweetest promises.

And it's scary, fear suffocating and oppressing like thick, grey storm clouds that pledge rain.

"You," he answers without taking his eyes from mine. His answer shatters, simple truths that are obvious to the eye but not to the heart.

And more stupid questions; one divided by one equals?

Me.

Alone.

And maybe it's not so stupid. "Why?" I wonder.

He steps forward, closing the distance, and my heart is crazy, chugging away like the old fashioned steam trains I would look upon every time I went with Charlie to Grandpa Swan's. He's the reason for my love of books.

His lips part, breath drawn, my gaze stuck. "Because I can." And with that he passes me to the door, stepping out onto the porch as if I'm simply meant to follow him. I want to be strong and go out in my own time. But I don't. And I'm weak and tied in ways I can't explain.

He doesn't look at me as he slides his hands into his pockets, or when I lock the door behind us. I wish I'd grabbed my coat as a particular cutting gust of wind snakes up the sleeves of my sweater, but I'm unwilling to give Edward any opportunity to change his mind, so I grab a hold of my sleeves with locked fingers and make my way down the steps. I don't look at him either.

He falls into step beside me, and neither one of us speaks, the identifiable sounds being that of the gravel beneath our shoes and the cries of the birds from the tunnel of trees overhead as we make our way down the daunting driveway. Bits of debris from the dancing branches fall from above as we pass underneath, the light muted to a dull blue-grey as we get further in.

Only then do I chance a glance in his direction.

He's staring straight ahead, focus contained, the muscles in his jaw standing out sharp almost as if he's biting down hard against his teeth.

I choose to finally speak.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to," I say. He seems tense, as if he doesn't want to be here. I'd rather he tell me now if this isn't going to work... It would destroy me, but I'd rather be aware than be kept in limbo, locked closets with the handle missing: trapped in darkness while still breathing.

His eyes cut to mine; a sidewards glance that is both brief and sharp. "I know," is all he says.

I hold back a sigh, frustrated, but underneath my irritation I'm also relieved. He's _here_.

We carry on walking once we get to the end of the driveway, instinct driving me to turn left as we head towards nothing but open road. I can feel his eyes on me after a few minutes more of silence and I tilt my head towards a small gap in the trees further ahead. We used to come here a lot as teens, days when we wanted to be alone; days when we wanted to escape from the constant scrutiny of our parents and friends. And I see the exact moment his face changes, hesitation lurking, creeping over his face like shadows.

He pauses, turning to look at me fully, but I quickly drop my eyes, not giving him chance to trap me in his gaze. I can guess what he's thinking, but I don't want to ask him again outright, I'm leaving the final decision up to him. Just like I did earlier back at the house. I'm so tired of being the one who willingly wants to right things all the time. It becomes exhausting... not to mention it continues to keep Edward's true feelings locked inside himself, his thoughts guarded by crossing swords, metal that shines to a deadly point.

He's suddenly all movement, ahead of me now as he starts to undo the buttons of his coat. I take a deep breath but don't linger, following behind as a sadness engulfs me like an unforgiving tide—I realise I can no longer talk to my own husband. Asking him small, couple-like things, such as if he's had a good day, seems so inconsequential in light of everything else. I don't want to fill the silence with words that mean nothing. But then I don't know how to ask him about the things that _do_, either.

Motion catches the corner of my eye. "Here."

His voice breaks me from my own thoughts, his arm outstretched behind him as he holds his coat out to me. My throat closes up as I look from _it _to him, emotion threatening to spill out from my open mouth; water plummeting to the ground from the highest peak of a waterfall, icy, forming a tight embrace around my chest as he shocks me for the second time today.

I shake my head, both to clear it and refuse, even though a part of me really wants to take it. "I'm fine," I murmur.

His eyes instantly dart down to my arms before coming to rest back on my face. "It's freezing out, Bella. Just take it." He sounds a little impatient but not unkind.

"What about you?" I wonder.

He shrugs. "I've been in an office all day... the cold feels nice."

I reach out slowly and take it from him, my knuckles turning white as I hold on to it tightly. "Thank you," I say gratefully.

He nods and turns back around, trampling down on a few overgrown thorn roots as he goes. I slip my arms through the sleeves, not realising how cold I'd actually been as I feel the residual heat warm my skin. His scent overwhelms me, cloying to my skin as I turn up the sleeves. And I'm already dreading the moment when I'll have to give it back.

The pathway has become a little overgrown, a once worn strip of dirt now covered in moss and dried leaves that crunch underfoot. Damp soil clings to my shoes, my heels sinking a little with every step.

I instantly spot the old tree swing in front of us, the once bright rope now a murky brown. It swings back and forth in the breeze, weightless movements like a descending feather as it drifts to the ground.

It had been here long before we ever found it, the rope having snapped three times since we'd made it ours. I would steal rope from the garage every time it did, and if Charlie ever noticed, he never once mentioned it.

I can't stop myself from going over to it now, palms pressing down up the base of the seat, the wood still surprisingly solid beneath my touch. I can feel Edward behind me, his own hand shooting forward to test its strength.

"It's fine," I tell him, even though he hasn't uttered a word. I immediately feel foolish... he may not have been planning to say anything.

I peek up at his face, his features slightly tight as he takes a step back, his gaze only lingering on mine briefly.

I turn around, hands grasping around the familiar feel of the rope as I hop on. There's a slight groan from the branch above but nothing to worry about, my hair flying back as I swing forward.

Edward stands a little ways off, hands immersed in his pockets as he watches me. I'm only moving slowly, his attention making me want to go that much faster and fly.

"You look exactly the same," he suddenly voices, no hint of affection or even soft remembrance in his tone despite his words.

My feet are on the ground as I swing softly, shifting from my heels to the balls of my feet. "I must look pretty silly in these clothes then," I say. I sometimes still feel as if I'm playing dress up when I look in the mirror.

His head tilts ever so slightly in consideration of my words, the only sign he actually heard me. "No... they look right. You've grown up."

I frown. "And yet I look the same?" I question. No woman wants to hear they still look like a child.

He turns his attention away, gaze upwards towards the sky. "I think you'll always look the same to me, Bella."

Or maybe they do.

My heartbeat stutters inside my chest but I don't dare to hope. I can't.

"You look different," I state as the wind picks up, carrying my words over to him. "Sometimes I can still see the same boy who sat next to me that first day in class... but he doesn't appear very often."

His eyes are back on mine. "And is that a bad thing?" he asks.

I stare right back. "Yes and no," I answer honestly.

"Why no?" he questions.

My lips part, the air cool on my tongue. "Because that boy never once broke my heart."

He holds my gaze and it feels like I'm shattering into a thousand little pieces. I'm letting him know I feel... but it doesn't necessarily make me feel any better. Not as I thought it would. Everything I want to say is going to end in pain for one of us. There is no winner here.

He tears his eyes away, and my stomach sinks in both relief and distress. "No, I guess not," he says eventually.

I'm not sure what to say after that, the conversation dying just as suddenly as it started, sinking ships and cries for help.

I watch as Edward paces in front of me... more _strolls_. He's not walking back and forth, just _forth _and around, shoes shuffling as he kicks the occasional small rock in his path. I imagine him behind me, pushing me as high as I can stand, excited squeals that are mixed with exultant fear. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the wind driving against my face.

"Do you remember the last time we were here?" he asks. It feels as if it's merely a statement than a question, but it must be, there's no one else here but me.

I swallow heavily, recalling past memories. "I remember," I answer. It was the day he told me we'd be getting married, _just us_, without telling anyone else. Not even Emmett.

"You were so afraid," he recounts and my feet slow in their momentum once again so I can focus clearly.

I shake my head. "I don't remember that," I say. "I remember being excited... and maybe a little nervous."

"You were more than a little nervous," he interrupts. "Your hands couldn't stop shaking."

I frown. "I don't remember that, either."

He comes to a stop at my left, and I crane my head up a little to look at him. "Just because _you _don't notice something doesn't mean that someone else hasn't."

"And that's all you remember? Me being afraid?" I wonder. What about the good parts?

His lids lower as he looks at his feet, leaving me nothing but lashes. "No," he replies, ending it at that.

I want to push, and ask him to continue. But I don't. I add my own part instead.

"I remember your cheeks being really flushed," I say, feeling the onslaught of a smile. "And your hair was crazier than usual."

He gaze snaps back up to meet mine. "It was windy," he states. And my smile deflates before it even really forms. My heels drag in the dirt as I fully bring myself to a stop, rope imprints on my palms as I get to my feet. "I also hadn't been able to keep my hands out of it all day," he adds.

"You were happy," I voice, fingers hidden beneath too long sleeves.

I watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "I was terrified," he corrects.

"I just remember you being happy."

He looks at me for a long moment. "I was," he agrees.

And where is his heart? Is it here with me? Or somewhere else... _with _someone else? My chest constricts, the thought bringing about a physical pain that makes me feel breathless, steep hill runs that make your legs ache.

I fumble with the buttons on his coat as tendrils of wind weave their way around my torso. His fingers flex at his sides, a minuscule movement, but I see it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath a puff of white in the air, and I want to step into it... step into him. I also want to pound my fists to his chest and tell him to _stop_, _please_, _go_, because he's making me feel too much. All things he can't give. All things I shouldn't want.

He reminds me that I'm weak when I want to be strong. And no matter how I act on the outside, armour in place, it doesn't change how I feel on the inside. I'm still that scared little girl just wanting to be loved.

"We should get back," he breathes out. And the moment is gone, the moon sucking up the sun's rays as night falls.

For the first time my plea has been answered when I want it to be ignored. "Okay," I nod, not waiting for him to follow me as I take one last glance back at the swing before retracing our steps.

He catches up to me quickly, his legs longer than mine, the bottom of his coat occasionally drifting out to brush against his leg as we make our way down the narrow walkway.

"Edward," I say when the house is in sight, the driveway not seeming so daunting this time around. I don't stop moving, his only answer a hum in return as I take a deep breath. But I don't get to ask him what I wanted, remind him that he still owes me an answer, because I spot a figure with fair hair walking down the front steps of the house.

This time I do stop, surprise freezing my muscles into blocks of useless ice.

Edward nearly runs into me, my pause abrupt, his brows drawing together as he looks down at me.

Jasper notices us soon enough, about the same time Edward becomes aware of what has garnered my attention.

His hand is immediately at the small of my back as I push forward, unsticking my feet from the gravel, and I'm instantly both angry and disheartened: angry that he's playing this game, sad because he shouldn't have to.

Jasper lifts his hand in a wave and I give him a small smile in return, tension surrounding me as the feel of Edward's palm burns through his coat to my spine.

We come to a stop by Jasper's car, or rather I do and Edward pauses with me. "Hey," I greet, taking a step to the side, Edward's fingers ultimately sliding from my back.

He gives us both a nod as he jogs down the last few steps to where we're standing.

I feel ten times more awkward standing here than I ever thought possible, my fingers squeezing together in front of me.

"Rose mentioned you were here," he explains as he comes to a stop, his attention solely on me now. "I tried ringing you beforehand but didn't get an answer."

"I forgot to take my phone with me," I explain, but the look he gives me lets me know he wasn't talking about this instance. In fact, I'm not even sure if he's phoned since last night.

A throat clears. "I have a few things I need to do," Edward interrupts and my shoulders tense at his voice. "You staying, Jasper?"

Instead of answering straight away his eyes dart to mine as if they hold all the answers. "I'm not sure," he replies after a moment.

"Okay, if you need anything..."

The offer hangs in the air around us as he ascends the steps and opens the front door, and I want to tell him, _no, don't go_, but then I think it would be worse if he actually stayed.

And suddenly I'm alone with someone I've been thinking about today more often than I should have been.

"You look a little windswept," he laughs, and I find myself smiling at the sound, a bit of the tension dissolving.

My smile still in place, and, "Comes with the territory."

He nods in understanding as he scratches his chin.

"You've been avoiding me," he states, changing the tone of the conversation, light curls sweeping across his forehead as a gust of wind picks up and rattles leaves about our feet. His eyes are on my face, and as I look back at his, I can see I've hurt his feelings. He's not hiding anything from me... not like Edward. I find I have to look away.

"I'm sorry," I answer, my voice low. "I've been going through a few things."

I see his head shake from my periphery. "You don't have to apologise," he states. "I just wanted to check in, see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," I say instinctively, contradicting my words from moments before.

He studies my face before nodding to the steps. He sits down and I follow his lead, drawing my knees close to my chest, still wrapped up in Edward's coat.

The fabric brushes my nose as I bury my face a little deep inside the collar, and I resist the urge to close my eyes.

"Listen, Bella, about that day we met for lunch..." I want to interrupt him or run inside. Anything so I don't have to confront or put a name to the thoughts and feelings I've been struggling with in light of certain events. "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. It wasn't my intention."

He pushes air through his lips and I quickly look away.

"You didn't," I lie. At least it's only half a lie. It was my own revelations that had made me feel that way. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"You left pretty soon afterwards," he reminds me, and I want to tell him to stop.

I lower my legs until they're straight in front of me. "I had to get back to work," I say in explanation.

And he won't let it go. "You'd only just left for lunch, Bella."

I feel irritation prickle my skin, the area behind my eyes. He's forcing me to deal with things I don't want to talk about. Both about myself and Edward. Him. My life as a whole.

I can't say anything in return, my eyes trained on a particularly green pebble in a sea of grey.

Or maybe I can.

"You're making me feel uncomfortable now," I say, and it's disconcerting how I'm able to be so honest around him sometimes, especially at times I don't want to be.

I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. "I'm sorry."

I turn and meet his eyes, his cheeks a little red from the weather. He's also a little less tan than usual. "I know."

There's no denying Jasper's attractive, his look both a little rugged and soft. His mouth always looks like it's about to quirk up into a smile which I think is why others seemingly find it easy to be around him.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" he questions, staring straight ahead with his elbows resting on his slightly raised knees.

"I have work," I answer, focusing on his profile.

He tilts his head slightly, catching me staring at him. "What about after?" And I freeze.

My mouth suddenly feels dry. "I'm not sure," I say, unable to find an excuse. I look down at my left hand, the biggest one of all staring back at my face accusingly.

But then I remember how lonely I've felt, for so long, and think about how it would be nice to have someone to speak to if I needed it. Someone who wasn't Edward or his immediate family.

Emmett has always been my biggest confidante, but it's gotten harder to talk to him since his engagement. He's been so busy with wedding preparations and I don't want to worry him any more than he already is.

"It's just coffee, Bella," he says, his tone nothing but sincere.

He gets to his feet, standing at the base of the steps, facing me. I bite the inside of my cheek and look up, decision made.

"Okay," I answer slowly.

He smiles softly. "What time do you close the store?"

"About four thirty," I say.

He nods, car keys in hand. And I realise I never once asked him if he wanted to go inside.

"I'll come by a little after that," he voices. "Is that alright?"

"Yeah," I say, swallowing heavily. I push myself up and hover on the step as he opens his door.

He looks at me seriously for a moment, wavering. "You know you can call me if you need anything, right? Any time."

I feel the lump in my throat get bigger, emotion smothering like a too hot day. I give a quick nod. "Thanks, Jasper."

With one last small smile he closes the door, gravel ricocheting from the tires of his car as he disappears down the driveway.

I stand outside for a little while longer... until I can't feel my cheeks, my fingers, the icy wind howling around me, a taunting torrent that whips my hair across my face. And all the while I start to doubt my decision.

I hate that I'm thinking like this though, like I'm doing something wrong. My confidence has faded from sight, ghostly expressions and empty spaces.

With one last look up at the sky I belatedly follow Edward inside.

But I don't know what I'm now supposed to do now the door is closed. I think about just going upstairs but quickly change my mind. _No_. I tug on the buttons of the coat as I walk, slipping them through their loopholes as my eyes search for the thing it wants most. _Him._ _Always_.

The material is sliding down my arms when I find him standing in front of the glass wall in the dining room, his form my bright spot in an already darkening day. He's slightly cast in shadows, an inky grey that does nothing to hide his features, the exact shading of stubble that graces his jaw.

I hold his coat to me for a few more seconds, fingers tight around the material, a very dominant part of me wanting to hold onto it and not give it back. It's stupid and yet I can't help feeling it. It's warm and smells like him. It both heals and stabs at something inside me and I feel like I'm suddenly being swallowed by grief.

I pause beside him, the dimming light reflecting in his eyes as he continues to gaze ahead. I look down at stupid fingers and hold out his coat. "Thanks for this," I say softly, not wanting to disturb the quiet that surrounds us in its translucent bubble.

His eyes cut sideways to meet mine before dropping down to my hands. "You can put it anywhere," he murmurs distractedly.

"I can hang it, if you want?" I offer.

He turns to face me fully, throwing the garment on one of the chairs behind us without looking. "It's just a coat, Bella."

The way he says it... I only just hold back from telling him it isn't to me. And that's only because his hand is unexpectedly reaching for my face, fingers under my chin as he tries to capture my gaze. I stop breathing.

He wears no particular expression and it's killing me. I'd give anything for him to look at me the way he used to. Just once. _Anything_.

His fingers linger at the edge of my mouth. "He makes you smile," he says. And I didn't know he was watching.

I swallow heavily, his touch like a bare flame to my skin. "You always did, too," I tell him. Sometimes all he'd have to do was give me one of his own and we'd match.

His thumb begins to trace, my lips wanting to part. "Not for a long time."

I look away, his words a hurtful reminder.

"You could though," I breathe. "If you want it enough."

He presses right down on the middle of my bottom lip, my breath catching in my chest, my throat.

And I'm torn—torn at what he wants, torn at what I want; lust and love and kisses that consume, hate and tears and screams that make my throat feel raw.

I want to ask him what he's thinking, but I'm scared he'll pull away. Or maybe I'm not. I'm so confused, so unsure of what I should be feeling... so unsure of what _he's _feeling that I can't do anything but wait, my mouth refusing to move under his touch.

And it feels like forever before he says anything.

"I want it," he responds.

He stares into my eyes and I think I'll burst into flames, red heat that dances around my feet before spiralling upward to colour my cheeks.

"The why don't you?" I murmur, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me, shaky like jelly.

"Because I'm not sure how to anymore," he admits, shattering me further. Tears fill my eyes and I can't stop them. I can't stop. "And I'm so tired of making you cry," he continues, his face troubled.

His hand drops from my face and I eventually give in, wetness rolling down my cheeks like the single lone droplet of juice from a bit into peach.

I shake my head. "Then stop it," I plead, hastily swiping evidence of my hurt from my skin.

He's silent for a moment before, "I'm not sure how to do that, either," he exhales.

I bury my face in his chest, forgetting, but too tired, too _scared _to move. His fingers find mine at our sides but he makes no move to hold me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I feel his breath stir my hair as words get whispered to my skin. "I'm sorry," he says lowly.

I don't ask him what he's apologising for, but then I don't need to. He's pulling away, his fingers sliding through mine like the descent of sand trapped within an hourglass.

"I'm sorry for these," he elaborates, his fingertip catching a teardrop as it clings to the base of my chin.

The house phones rings again, and this time I know he's going to leave to go answer it. I don't even have to tell him it's okay. Not that it is—I want him to hold me, _really _hold me this time—but I just know. It's been a long day. For us both.

"I need to get that," he says, and I nod, because I get it. It's hard. "It could be my parents." And the same problems are still here.

I watch him walk out of the room, hands in his hair. The ringing stops and his voice drifts back to me in a muffled murmur, too quiet for me to pick up what he's saying. The sound of the office door clicking shut lets me know our time is over for today. He's not coming back.

I stand in front of all that glass, watching the world going about life beyond, remembering I was not so long ago in its place, looking in.

My fingers and lips still feel tingly, a warmth of excitement left over from his touch. And I'd forgotten just how much I missed it—forgotten what it felt like.

Just like I've forgotten the taste of his kisses. And the feel of his breath hitting my lips as he moves above me.

The look in his eyes when he does.

Kind of like trying to look through water.

But there are a lot of things I'm also remembering: shaking hands and flushed cheeks, fear and messy hair. Happiness.

And hope... I'm remembering that, too. That it exists. That it can be mine. That it's okay to let it bloom into a garden of delight: bright colours and sweet pollen and sun kissed cheeks. That it's okay to be scared.

Because love wouldn't be real if it didn't hurt.

And that's something I don't ever want to forget.

* * *

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**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	14. How Can You Mend A Broken Heart

**Hey everyone! Thank you so much for all your PMs and reviews and the like. I read and appreciate each and every one. **

**The biggest thanks to Susan who spoils me with her time. And to Judy for pre-reading. And to Jen for talking me down from the ledge.**

**They are the wings beneath my wings and all that jazz. ;]**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

I remember reading a passage about love in a magazine once, glossy pages that were dedicated to women who were supposedly just like me: fresh faced, married to their sweetheart, world at their feet. The women who allegedly had it all.

The article was split into two parts: those who had found their happily ever after, and those who were still looking. Waiting.

For those who had—the lucky ones—there were detailed pieces about vacations in The Hamptons, camping trips that led to special rings being slid down fishing wire onto fingers, swelling bellies and hands that protected, hands that already adored.

Happiness screamed from these pages, exuding hope to all those who had yet to fill their shoes; had yet to soar and spin with utter delight, like dancing under the moonlight. Alone. No one watching.

The part that really stuck out for me though, was the section made up of letters, the innermost desires scribbled on bits of paper.

They were depicted on receipts, napkins smudged with ketchup, Starbucks coffee cups, all asking that same universal question so many crave the answer to—the one we all worry about as time begins to speed by, like high speed chases, foot flat to the pedal.

_When do you know when you've found_ The One?

The answers were simple, the usual, what you would expect to read: next date anticipation, that instant attraction that prickles your skin and stretches your smile—the one that makes your cheeks hurt and warm—eyes that dart and avoid; shyness, coyness, all due to the same result. Desire and bursting hearts.

These are all the obvious signs, flashing lights that garner your attention, that reflect back in glassy wonder. But there's also that spark, that factor you can't quite put your finger on, can't quite put a name to. A feeling of just... _knowing_.

And as I think back now, I can't help but feel they left an important part of the equation out, one no one ever thinks about until it's too late, a question I have done nothing but ask myself for months: What do you do when that happy ending, that seemingly perfect life... What do you do when it begins to unravel? When the man you married is so distant he may as well not even be there; when everything falls apart, unsettles itself, like tornadoes ripping the thickest of roots straight from the ground?

When the one who made you happy, who still can, is also the one behind it all, dictating your reactions and controlling your heart, like buttons on a switchboard being hit at random until you've lost all control?

Those are the articles I want to read. Those are the answers I so desperately crave. Those are the important pieces for me.

And I know I'm not alone. Because no one would ever want to go through this.

No one.

If you had a choice, a snap decision, it would be to be glued back together. To be whole, a unit, united, magnetic opposites.

Happy.

Where are those articles? That's what I want to scream, so loud, at the very top of my lungs until my throat burns and oxygen dries up.

But I _know._ They are stitched up into hearts all across the world, scared, waiting for something to change.

But waiting will get you nowhere.

I know that.

And I think he does, too. Last night he seemed to know. My lips still feel his soft touches lingering like sun-kissed rays that leave freckles behind on the bridge of your nose, on the apples of your cheeks.

Yes…

I think.

I hope.

I close my eyes but don't pray. This is something I need to do alone. Or maybe not alone. But together.

I think.

Hopefully.

My palms find my eyes, anguish burning like amber lit coal, and I still don't know what he wants.

I still don't know.

XXX

I stand before the mirror, eyes that were once glossy, now a dull brown, the hue of your favourite aging tree in the park.

Faint colours line the underside of my bottom lids, my lack of sleep sneaking in to leave unwanted gifts beneath long lashes. I look again, my face appearing like a portrait on display, patiently waiting for that one person to really _look_, to decide if it likes what it sees. A bid, a buy, a home.

I press my fingers to the patches of ugly watercolour, watching them momentarily pale before the colours fight back. And it's useless. My body is bone tired and I can't sleep.

I lie in bed at night and think about it... all of it, trying to remember the vivid moments that stick out like yellow chalk slashed over black, like a brightly coloured wound.

It feels like life is passing me by; a series of blurs and colours; a cacophony of voices and endless faces I do not know. Drifting eyes and watch faces that spin, inner cogs rotating, a constant reminder that follows you around on your wrist.

_Tick_. _Tick_. _Tick_.

It's like I'm climbing down a trail of knotted sheets, one that never reaches an end. I'm simply going and going, driven by something more than aching fingers and a sweaty brow; more than shaky arms and a shattering desperation.

I'm looking for that something that represents all the good parts of who I used to be. That _something_ I can't let go of, even now. _Especially_ now.

I pull myself away from my reflection, knowing I'd rather see a different face instead, even if I am scared of what I'll be met with.

I descend the stairs slowly, unsure what I'll find this morning, what his eyes will communicate. I'm hoping they'll tell me _something _and not keep me locked out; I'm hoping he'll be here at all.

My answer is rewarded when I'm met with his form hunched over the counter, elbows to the surface, hands in hair that make my own fingers twitch with want.

His back is to me, his chest rising and falling steadily, hypnotic like slumber. I wonder what he's thinking right this second; wonder if his thoughts match mine, like a game of pairs.

I want to press my cheek to his skin and listen to his own inner tick; count and sigh and ask if it still knows me with a whisper.

It's strange looking at something that is essentially mine, yet not being able to act on what my heart is literally screaming at me to do. I don't think I'll ever get used to the feeling... I don't ever_ want_ to get used to the feeling.

He sighs and that awareness doesn't leave. I want to curl into him, have him wrap himself around me; safe arms and familiar scent. Experience home. Press my lips to his stubbled chin and feel his lashes against my cheeks as he peppers my face with his own fleeting kisses.

Shine.

For him.

And I'm not sure if he's only now sensing me behind him, but he's suddenly all movement, straightening up: tap on, kettle filled, noise filling the silence.

He turns, eyes up and down, up and down. _Never leave. Never leave_. "Morning," he says, his hands finding their favourite place—in his pockets.

I straighten my skirt, his attention _yes, yes, yes_, and _no, no, no._ "Morning," I repeat, my voice sounding stupid.

The kettle bubbles angrily and I watch as he grabs two mugs from the cupboard, leaving me with nothing to do.

I pass him a teaspoon from the drawer beside my hip, his eyes flicking to mine as I hand it to him. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The awkwardness is palpable as I slide into a chair; sweaty palms and the fluttering wings of a butterfly.

He sits opposite me after a few minutes, sliding a mug of tea my way; it warms my hands like hot sand on a sunny day down at the beach.

I always have tea first thing in the morning... he remembered. I hold in a smile over something so simple.

My teeth find the inside of my bottom lip, and I can't seem to stop looking at him, expectant for... something.

His eyes meet mine after a few moments and warmth blooms in my stomach. "I need to go to the grocery store after work." And I'm not stupid enough to think it's an invitation. Or maybe I am, as he asks, "Do you want to come with me? Pick out something for dinner?"

He's watching me carefully, his fingers resting on the handle of his mug as surprise registers itself within my system, such a simple domestic activity filling me with more happiness than it should. And I go to say _yes_, the word on the tip of my tongue, when I remember... I can't.

Nerves tickle my stomach, accelerate my pulse, my coffee date with Jasper instantly playing heavily on my mind. "Um, I would, but I'm meeting a friend," I reply evasively. And I'm not sure why I say it like that. He's a friend. Just a friend.

"Anyone I know?" he questions, staring at me from across the table.

I tease the teabag in my mug, stirring around and around, a whirlpool of conflicting answers on the tip of my tongue. "Just Jasper."

He goes about stirring his own drink—coffee—silent the whole time. I peek and meet a controlled face, lips parting as his mug reaches his mouth. I quickly look away again.

"Where?" he asks once he's swallowed.

I shrug. "I'm not sure."

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than it takes to blink. A sign. A _something_.

I'm really looking this time, unwilling to miss even the smallest token that what I've just said is affecting him.

"What time are you meeting him?" he asks.

My brows rise, his interest something I haven't been on the receiving end of in so long. "After work."

"Ah, so this has been arranged for a while, then?" he assumes wrongly.

I look back at him to find him already staring at me. "No." I shake my head. "Yesterday."

His gaze lingers on my face. "The reason for the smile," he says, referring to yesterday.

I bite the inside of me cheek, my tongue. "No, not the smile."

"Something else?" he questions.

My eyes focus on the point where his Adam's apple protrudes in his throat. "He just talks to me, Edward. That's all. Just talks."

"Like we are now?" he points out, being difficult.

I sigh. "Maybe, but not really. This is different."

His thumb rubs down the edge of his mug. "How?"

I gather a deep breath in my lungs. "Because it's easy... easier."

His brows shift. "So not easy?"

My eyes dart away, focusing on the clock. "Easier than this," I answer.

There's a pause in the conversation as I momentarily lose him to his thoughts. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" he mutters finally.

I think about that, wondering how he'd react if I switched to his favoured form of answering—_with a question_. "Would you want it to be?"

_This is your opportunity, Edward. This is it. Tell me._

Chair legs scrape against the floor. "I'll order in for dinner. Is there anything I shouldn't get?"

He's diverting, running. Playing house where foundations are almost nonexistent. But then I started it. What did I expect?

"You know what I like," I answer.

He pauses with his arms halfway through the sleeves of his suit jacket, and I briefly wonder if he's about to ask me what that is, what I like. But he doesn't, and shoulders hunch to shift the jacket up rightfully.

My gaze lowers to his tie, crooked as always. It's a constant in a sea of change, my tangerine life jacket. I can't seem to look away.

He notices my attention, fingers twisting and tugging at the knot, his turn to shift under my gaze, even if it only lasts seconds.

"What?" he questions, gaze a direct hit to my own. _Bullseye_.

"Nothing," I answer.

More tugging.

"Want some help?" I offer, the words out of my mouth before I can stop myself, feet taking a hesitant step forward.

His hands still, green steady, pinning me in place, paper to cork. Sharp metal pinch. "It's fine," he answers.

I pull in a deep breath. "I can help," I say.

He eyes dip. "It's not important," he responds. "I'll just get one of the girls to do it at work if I have a meeting."

Sudden screeching as he slides his chair back under the table, wood banging against wood, the sound like a gunshot, bullet straight to the heart. And this time I know he's trying to hurt me on purpose. I just can't figure out why.

After last night, I thought something had changed, shifted like ice caps. Evidently not.

I say nothing and reach for my empty mug at the exact same time he does, resulting in his fingers brushing with mine. We both pause, his thumb on the back of my hand, and I'm frozen, conflicting emotions battling against one another as his touch and his words clash; hurt and warmth and a bleeding heart.

And even though there are no words, no looks as he pulls away, it fills me with a rapidly blooming sense of joy. All over something so simple; something I'm not even sure he did on purpose.

But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. Because it's better than nothing. Better than it has been.

And I guess that has to be enough.

XXX

It's foggy out as I make my way to the bookstore, the roads busy this morning as everyone takes their time getting to work. I park my car in the lot down the street and walk swiftly on heels that feel too high for this time of day, eager to get inside. Fume exhaust and the smell of cinnamon rolls linger in the air as I search for my keys in my bag, head in the clouds as I accidentally bump into someone.

An apology leaves my mouth before I've even looked up, my mouth instantly snapping shut again when I see who it is I've run into.

Rosalie stands at the door to the store, a wary smile on her lips as she clutches a soft purple binder to her chest, the colour reminding me of lilacs in bloom. She's so put together, not a hair out of place, neat makeup applied, even if it is minimal. I wish I could have her dedication this early.

"Hi, Bella," she greets, looking a little nervous. Or eager. Maybe a small amount of both.

And I haven't lost my manners, even if I am surprised to see her. "Hey," I say, my bag dropping heavily to the crook of my arm, keys forgotten.

I watch as she shifts the binder in her arms a little higher, teetering slightly on her feet, my eyes naturally drifting to the brown beaded flats that grace them.

And she's practical, too.

"Is it okay that I'm here?" she wonders, that wary expression forming on her face again. I don't like it, it makes me feel uncomfortable.

I nod stiffly, the movement creating an ache that shoots from my shoulder to my neck, muscles tense. "Sure," I answer, assembling what I hope to be a smile onto my face. "It's not my store... it's fine." I'm flustered, having not expected her waiting here for me. "It's fine," I say again.

That look diminishes, but still doesn't go away completely. "Oh. Good. Okay, thanks." She slides her hair over to gather on one shoulder, her binder almost slipping in the process.

I'm immediately reaching out, helping so it doesn't fall to the pavement and the oil stains that litter it. She murmurs a soft 'shit', one I'm sure I'm not supposed to hear.

I realise it's the first time I've ever heard her curse.

"Sorry, I've been up for hours and have maybe had one too many cups of coffee," she explains. I don't say anything, urging her gaze up, not intentionally, but it's there. "Wedding planning," she adds with a small smile.

"Yeah," I say, even though I wouldn't know. The only responsibility I had for my own was turning up at the courthouse.

She eyes the door. "Can we go inside?"

I shake my head, trying to clear it. "Of course. Sorry." I go about searching for my keys for a second time.

The bell signals our entry as I flip the switch for the lights, the outside dreariness darkening the space inside, a cloud of smoke as it shoots to the sky from a chimney.

I set my bag on my desk, the computer humming to life as I switch on the power.

"I always feel a sense of guilt whenever I'm here. Guilty that I don't read more," she says distractedly, gaze sailing across the array of bookshelves and titles that don them, a kite aimlessly shuffling in the wind. "Or any bookstore for that matter."

And I can understand that. I feel the same whenever I pass a church without walking inside. It's not the same, and I'm not at all that religious, but I guess it's just that feeling of what we should be doing. Or what we perceive we should be _better at_ due to outside forces.

I glance at the clock, watching ten seconds tick by before refocusing my attention back to the woman in front of me.

"Did you want to sit?" I ask. She shakes her head.

"I can't stay too long; I just came by to ask you a favour."

I'm immediately on edge, wondering what it is she could want from _me_. "Oh. Okay."

She places the binder on the counter between us, flipping through until she lands on a page where a Polaroid of a pretty dress resides. "Do you like this?" She looks at me expectantly.

"Sure," I answer. "It's beautiful." And it is.

She smiles. "How would you feel about wearing it?"

I feel my brows crease, lips puckering ever so slightly. "Sorry?"

She takes a deep breath. "A friend of mine from back home can't make the wedding... she was supposed to be my bridesmaid."

This time my eyes are widening, lashes blinking again and again, a flick of a handheld fan, as I stare stupidly. She's not serious?

"I don't know what to say." My teeth immediately find the inside of my cheek.

Her blue eyes are piercing as she tucks her hair behind her ears. "Say 'yes'."

I look back at the dress, trying to imagine myself wearing it, trying to imagine myself helping Rosalie get ready for her big day. I feel a lump form in my throat as I picture Esme running about and Kate fixing her hair and makeup. I imagine myself standing off to the side, like every other event I've ever been to with these people.

"Why are you asking me?" I push out, the question coming out quietly.

She gives me a long look. "Because you're important to Emmett." She wets her lips. "It was his idea, actually."

I frown, wondering why he'd suggest that. Surely he'd know how awkward this would be between us?

"All you'd have to do is walk down the aisle," she adds, trying to convince. The thought of all those eyes on me makes my mouth go dry.

I can't help but wonder if she really wants this. We know nothing about one another. "And you're okay with this?" I question. I'm watching closely for any signs of a lie.

Her head tilts to the side, assessing, just like I am. "We're going to be family... and Edward's Emmett's best man. It makes sense."

My heart stutters at the mention of Edward's name... I'd somehow forgotten about him in all of this.

She doesn't look away once, no nervous twitches. Gaze confident, steady.

My natural instinct is to refuse, but I've never been to a wedding before, apart from my own, and definitely not one filled with loved ones and mascara smudged tissues clutched between palms.

I want to ask if she's spoken to Edward about any of this. The thought seems unlikely.

"Okay," I find myself saying, heart leaping in my chest.

Her smile is white and perfect. I'm undecided about its genuineness. "Thank you, Bella."

My limbs feel stiff. "Do I need to do anything or...?"

"No, no, no," she interrupts. "Well, apart from turn up to a fitting, and maybe a brunch, which I'll call about tomorrow. Is that okay?"

I nod. "Em has my number."

"Edward actually gave it to me a while back now," she admits.

I unconsciously fiddle with my wedding ring. "Oh." I don't understand why he'd do that... why she'd want it to begin with.

She glances at her watch. "I've got to go—I'm meeting Kate for breakfast." She pauses, eyeing me as she collects her binder. "Did you want to come?"

The mention of Kate's name makes me tense up, actively trying not to show my disdain on my face; wrinkled noses and nauseous sensations.

"I can't really leave the store," I say. Not that I'm sure anyone would notice.

She hitches her bag higher onto her shoulder, contents rustling. "Of course. Sorry." She takes another look at the time. "I'll call you tomorrow... around lunchtime?"

"That's fine."

Another smile. "I'll speak to you then." The bell rings as she opens the door, a quick wave sent over her shoulder. "Bye, Bella."

"Bye."

I'm staring through the glass to the building opposite long after she's gone, arms around my middle as I watch the owner stick a sign in his window, bold black lettering on paper the colour of the inside of a watermelon, indicating there is twenty percent off all footwear.

He waves over to me but my response is slow, my head a mess of thoughts, overcrowded like wild ivy, lost to a different conversation about pretty dresses.

**~CitP~**

The room is full of faces I've seen countless times before but still don't know the names of. There is laughter and clinking glasses; happiness and flirtatious glances.

I tug at the end of my dress for what feels like the hundredth time as I stand alone, watching it all.

Emmett has brought his new girlfriend home for the summer, my insecurities making an unwelcome appearance. More so when I see how much Esme instantly loves her.

"Stop it," a voice whispers in my ear, arms wrapping around me, hands resting on my stomach.

I smile, relieved he's back. "Stop what?" I ask.

"Comparing yourself," he answers. Am I that obvious?

"I wasn't," I lie.

His lips find my neck. "You forget, I_ know _you."

I turn and kiss his cheek, surprising him. "I didn't forget."

He grins. "Good."

Music is playing softly, despite there being no room for dancing. Edward grabs my hand and pulls me forward, holding my hand in the air, eyes expectant, brows raised.

People stare, my cheeks turning hot as I swallow thickly.

"People are looking," I say, trying to avoid staring at anyone but him.

He shrugs. "Let them look."

"It's embarrassing."

His expression gets serious, softer. "No, Bella. Falling down the stairs is embarrassing. Forgetting your wallet at the store is embarrassing. Watching a pretty girl twirl in a pretty dress is _not_."

I don't think it's possible to love someone as much as I do him right this second. "Okay."

He gives my hand a tug and my teeth find my lip, holding back a smile as I twirl. I'm pulled into his arms, his lips finding my ear as I laugh lightly. "Not so bad, huh?"

"No, not so bad," I agree. My cheeks are pink with a different kind of heat.

It's not long before I'm staring at Rosalie again, her dress a pale blue that sets off the colour of her eyes, a meadow full of forget-me-nots. My own is one I've worn numerous times, usually unconcerned with how it looks. But now, with a new female at family events, it's hard not to be.

"I should have bought a new dress," I sigh, swaying softly as Edward continues to hold me.

He pulls back a little, eyes sweeping over me. "I think you look beautiful," he murmurs, thumb brushing my jaw, all feather-like strokes that make my skin tingle.

I decide to tease, even though his words make my heart flutter. "You have to say that because you're my husband."

The sound of his laughter makes me happy. "And don't you forget it."

I stare for the longest time, my lips moving to his, all sweet kisses like cinnamon and touches that adore, that make me melt, flavoured ice on the tongue. "Like I could."

**~CitP~**

My throat feels tight and my eyes are watering... it's been so long since he acted that way with me. I never forgot... but he did, after a while.

There was no twirling, no laughter, no arms around middles. Just me and my memories.

My breath catches—_what did I just agree to?_

I twist the sign to 'Open' and walk back to my desk.

XXX

The store has been quiet today, leaving me time to unpack the new shipment of books we received during the week I had off work.

Also, it's left me with a lot of spare time to think about Jasper.

I've been feeling anxious all day, especially as I remember Edward's reaction this morning... taking an interest. Is what I'm doing wrong? _No_, I tell myself. No. I'm allowed to have friends... just like he is. Kate's face comes unbidden to my mind and I quickly blink it away, trying to ignore the way my chest aches afterward.

I'm down to the last box when I hear the bell ring, signalling someone's arrival. A few minutes pass and I figure if anyone needs my help, they'll ask for it.

I hear footsteps getting nearer, my head lifting at the sound of my name, the voice unmistakably male. I pause as I find grey eyes, the stack of books heavy in my arms, awkward to hold.

Jasper stands at the end of the aisle, dressed casually in faded jeans and a plain blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his tan.

I tell myself not to be nervous. "Hey," I say, glancing back to the books and the shelving in front of me. "You're early."

He scratches the edge of his jaw, clean-shaven skin against the tips of his fingers, none of the stubble-scratch noise I love. "That's okay, right?"

"Sure, sorry," I say quickly, eyes trained on the title of the book on top of the pile. I hear him shift and take a peek, inspiration hitting as I notice him following my glance. "You can help if you want?" His eyes lift to mine and I add, "We'd be able to get out of here quicker."

He laughs, uncrossing his arms. "I suppose I could do that," he says, his expression alight with humour, all sunshine reflections.

My cheeks warm as I dump the books from my arms to his, hands quickly reaching for the check-off sheet on the cart. "Those books there," I say, pointing to the ones in his hold, "go in this section right here: green for agriculture. All you have to do is alphabetise them."

"Hmm," he hums, the sound nice to my ears, my skin, like soft wool. "So, no putting, say..." he glances at the title of the first book, "_The Sheep Book_ near _All Flesh is Grass_?" he teases.

I shake my head. "No, that would be wrong," I smile.

His eyes go a little squinty. "Would anyone really notice, though?"

My lips purse. "I would," I say. "Oh, and a sheep farmer might, too," I add as an afterthought.

He grins. "Get many sheep farmers around here?"

I'm teasing, playing, heart thumping, long forgotten feelings searching for light, a wilting plant in a darkened room.

"You'd be surprised," I say as seriously as I can manage. "The people of Port Angeles are really crazy about their... sheep."

He holds my gaze and I can't stop the laugh that is bubbling in my chest, fizzy powder and stilted breaths. It feels foreign and I let go, lips curling at the sides, cheeks hurting in a good way. He smiles back at me and I look away.

"Let's live a little," he says after a moment, a note of conspiracy to his tone as he slots the book in the wrong section.

My eyes seem to not want to stop staring at it, even after he's removed his hand. "Okay."

But I don't feel like it's okay. That need to fix and right is kicking in, flashes of smiles and brown eyes—green ones, too—coming to the forefront of my mind.

"It's just a book, Bella," he tells me, his gaze burning a hole into the side of my face.

I swallow hard, mouth dry. "I know," I answer. And I do. It doesn't mean my fingers aren't twitching though.

He starts arranging the rest of the pile, placing them anywhere while I just stand stupidly, a statue in a garden maze, eyes frozen. And I don't stop him, but I don't help him either. That is until he's standing in front of me with the last book in his hand. "Your turn," he says quietly, eyes holding mine steady as that need to pull away beats inside my chest like a warning drum.

My gaze flicks back and forth but I don't take it, my hands clutching the check-off sheet tightly.

He slouches a little, bringing his head somewhat closer to my height. "What are you frightened of?"

My reply is instant. "I'm not scared."

"Then what is it?" he presses.

A slow exhale passes through my lips. "I don't like change."

His lashes lower. "Change isn't always a bad thing, Bella. It can be positive, too."

I swallow heavily. "Not always." I know this... know it all too well.

He wets his lips, sight distracting, confusing. "What's the worst thing that can happen by putting this book in a different place?" he asks. "Someone might not be able to find it? Big deal."

My fingers find my temple, pushes hair aside. "It could get lost," I say, and I don't think I'm talking about books anymore. My eyes feel hot and I don't know where this is coming from.

His fingers sweep through his light waves, gaze thoughtful. "Think of it another way; think of the fun you could have finding it again." And I don't think he's talking about books, either.

It doesn't feel fun... it_ hasn't _felt fun. It's hard... so, so hard: questioning every little detail, worry a black veil that covers my eyes, that irritates my lashes, tinting everything in a negative light.

I reach forward and _take, _slide the book into a gap at random and quickly look away again. I'm rewarded with a warm smile.

There are no condescending words or pats on the back afterward, just a glance to his watch and a, "ready?"

I grip the cart with two hands and push it towards the back room. "Yes."

"I'm in the mood for something with a lot of cream," he says, stretching, all jungle cat movements as I return.

My cheeks warm as my eyes land on a sliver of bare skin, tan and different. Nice. I turn away.

"I usually just take mine black," I say, closing my eyes.

I hear him yawn. "You don't like cream?" he questions from behind me.

"Not in coffee." I peek sideways—he smiles.

"Black is your favourite?" he guesses.

I nod. "Since I was old enough for Charlie to let me drink it."

He smiles softly. "Well, then, that's a good choice."

He hands me my coat, his fingers brushing mine, eyes nervous as they fly to his face. His own are there and I can't keep them, I _can't_. I turn away.

There is a ringing silence and then he's close, my body automatically leaning forward. It shocks me so much I freeze, ice sculptures with hammering hearts that threaten to crack the exterior.

I don't want to look, don't want to go, coffee no longer a good idea, but then he's moving, out the door, waiting on the sidewalk, easy stance and I can breathe. I can breathe.

I flip the lights with a shaky hand and follow him out.

XXX

Consciousness starts to creep in, lids closed, something heavy across my legs. I'm warm, cosy, sleepy-content. Part of me wants to ignore all this and lose myself once more. But awareness has crept up on me fully and the moment has passed, shadow moving on a sun dial.

The house was empty when I arrived home, and too exhausted to climb up the stairs, I found myself on the couch in the lounge, waiting and wondering. Wanting to see Edward. Disappointed he wasn't there.

Somewhere in between I must have drifted off, persuaded by lowering lids and even breathing.

I crack my eyes open, the room dark apart from the blue of the TV screen, programme ended.

I don't even remember switching it on... and I don't remember falling asleep. My eyes find the dark woven blanket covering me... and I don't remember that either.

Carpet fibres tickle my feet as I pull myself up into a sitting position, fingers trying to sort out the tangle of waves about my face as a yawn escapes my mouth. A throat clears, eyes snapping in the direction of the noise, heart flying, not realising there was anyone else in the room with me.

They land on Edward, and I'm momentarily confused before remembering where I am. He's my church, my _please, God, please_.

The light of the TV reflects back onto his face, lighting his eyes, making my heart beat, beat, beat.

He's staring back at me unabashedly, scanning my face, searching for what, I don't know. His forearms rest on his knees as he leans forward at a slight angle, fingers joined loosely.

I can feel my cheeks warming as I stare right back, _really look_, thankful for the dark of the room. I go to shift my feet when I remember the blanket covering me.

It prompts me to break the silence.

"Did you do this?" I ask, my voice still thick with sleep.

His lids become a little lazy. "Do what?"

"Cover me with this," I say, indicating to the blanket.

His answer is simple. "You looked cold."

"Why?"

His brow furrows. "Why what?"

"Why did you do it?"

He sighs. "I just told you, you looked cold."

"That's it?" I question.

He licks his lips. "Yes."

I look down.

"What made you care?" I wonder. _Why now?_

I don't know where this is coming from. But I need to know what he's thinking, what he wants. I can't stand waiting anymore. Waiting leaves nothing but a stagnant pain, a burn that still stings long after the initial contact.

This afternoon made me see a few things for what they are... avoidance is dangerous. It festers... could eventually lead to a stupid decision if you're not careful.

"You're tired, I'm not doing this with you now."

"No," I shout, my voice louder than anticipated, filled with a fire that brings his eyes back to mine.

"We are. We're doing this now."

He raises a glass to his lips, the amber liquid familiar. I burn. And it's only now I'm noticing he's been drinking. "Oh, really?"

I nod. "Yes, really."

His jaw flexes. "Did you have a nice time tonight?"

I pause, Jasper's smile flittering before my eyes. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"I'm not; I'm asking you a question. You wanted to talk, we're talking."

My fingers twist the blanket in my lap. "Yes, I had a nice time."

His eyes hold mine and I can't look away. "I'm incredibly happy for you," he sneers.

I glare back at him. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you." He's looking for a fight, and I'm scared with the way I'm feeling right this second, I'll end up giving in.

"What _does_?" he questions lazily.

My throat feels tight. "Not this," I answer, watching him.

His gaze burns. "Perhaps if I looked a little more like Jasper... would that suit me better?"

And twisted smiles that still make me feel too much.

I hate it and love it, love _him._.. hate _him._

"I don't want that... don't want _this_."

He swirls the whiskey in his glass. "What do you want then?"

"I want to _live_ again: smile and laugh and feel good about myself."

He gives me a series of hard blinks. "I'm not stopping you from doing that."

I run a hand through my hair. "Of course you are."

Eyes down and away. "Forget about me then. Pretend I'm not here."

I want to laugh at that, but I'm afraid I'll start crying instead. "I can't just forget about you; I can't just walk away."

Cruel expressions and, "Why? You already did once."

And it's a punch to the gut.

I'm instantly on my feet, not about to do this with him when he's been drinking. The blanket drops to my feet.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

I look around, searching for an escape route. "Away," I say, rounding the sofa.

The sound of glass clanking against wood echoes behind me and then he's following me to the kitchen, his voice a shout as I continue to ignore him. "Bella!"

I need to be alone, take a breath, calm down.

A fire burns through me, cupboards slamming shut, cutlery rattling as I tear open paper boxes. The food's cold, but I don't care.

"This is what you always did. Escaped to the kitchen. Ran away." His tone is victorious, indignant. Not him.

I spin, hands fists on the counter. "Because I had to get away from you!" I scream. "You're driving me crazy!"

Hard eyes and parting lips. "You think it's not the same for me?" he roars, and it fills my ears; his pain, his anger, coating me like a shell of sugar.

Eyes squeezing shut, lashes scrunching, and, "Get away from me," I saw lowly.

A painful silence and punishing claws, ripping away at me. "I should never have asked you to stay."

And the plate in my hand flies, crashes to the wall; sparks and ire and sharp pointed edges. My destruction, my breaking point—enough, enough, enough.

He's staring at me with a tight jaw, my chest rising and rising, matching his, and words, they arrive, hitting again and again. My shield. My weapon. My truth.

"Let me go then!" I say loudly, hands shaking. "Let me go! Stop stringing me along! If you want to end this, do it, because I'm breaking and I can't do it. I _can't _do it."

I'm screaming, shouting, my eyes burning along with my chest, and I'm defeated, broken, a mirror cracked multiple ways.

Why can't he see that? Why can't he see?

A smile that holds no amusement forms at his mouth. "Like it's that easy," and his ire, I want to drown in it, lose mine to his, want him to take it; take, take, take.

"It is," I say, arms out at my sides. "You just say the words. Say anything. Because you're breaking my heart, Edward. And it hurts... you're hurting me." I'm moments away from sobbing, or maybe I'm already there. My cheeks feel wet and it's too late.

"Well, you broke mine, too!" he yells.

And how can you mend two broken hearts?

Bitter smiles and a travelling ache, pinpricks of stinging remembrance. "So you're punishing me?" I choke out.

He doesn't answer me, a severe look, a warning.

"Jesus Christ. What do you want from me?" I scream, control gone, up in the clouds, flying high. "What do you want, huh? Because you asked me to stay here, and I did, but you're being the fucking _same_. Hot, cold, cold, cold. Stop playing games with me!"

"I'm not the one going on dates with another man after work!" he yells.

I take a step back. "It was coffee. Nothing. We're friends."

He swallows heavily. "He looks at you as more than a friend."

"That's rich," I laugh, hands clutching opposite shirt sleeves.

A step forward, counteracting my one back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Kate." I don't need to say any more.

His chest expands with a deep breath. "What about her?"

"What do you mean, 'What about Kate'? Are you not attracted to her?"

He holds my gaze and my teeth clamp down on my lip, refusing to cry again. Not that I think I ever stopped. "She's attractive."

"That's not what I asked you," I say, my body trembling, adrenaline and a weakening heart.

His face darkens. "No."

"But you want to be?" I'm not stupid, not blind.

And one word. "Yes." Arms clutch, useless, but he's not finished. "I've thought about it... how easy it would be."

That last bit of strength I was holding onto crumbles, and I swear that noise is coming from me. "So why haven't you done anything about it?"

He's closer, proximity prickling my skin. "Because she isn't you."

My hands grip his shirt, pushing him away.

"I told you to get away from me," I say, tears streaming, eyes hot.

Fingers dig into the tops of my arms, battling against me. "_Stop_."

"No, _you _stop," I repeat, chest constricting. "You've taken everything, Edward!" I cry, shattering like crystal. "Everything!"

His blinks increase, lashes battling against foreign dampness. Take, give, break. Down, down, down. Like me, drowning, sinking like ships.

"You need to stop fighting against me but _for_ me!" I press, hands clutching, fingers tight and knuckles white. "Please. _Please_," I beg.

His expression shifts, smoke clearing. "I am," he grinds out. "I always have." And _his _hands are performing, too. "You think I left emotionally... I didn't. I live and breathe and think about you... all the fucking time. And sometimes... sometimes I wish I didn't."

He pauses, taking in my expression, a wounded animal as it whimpers on the ground.

"I'm hurting in all this too," he pushes out, _showing_ me; eyes and mouth and words that splinter. "But you're so wrapped up in your own grief to notice mine."

Fingertips catch teardrops, angry and wanting to give in, to fall. But my legs are steady, holding me up when I think I have nothing left to give. "You should have told me," I say; a growl, a groan, a plea.

His fingers punish; weave and tug, weave and tug. "Did you ever consider that the only way I can cope is by shutting off?" he says lowly, his words causing chills to run up my spine. It's a_ttack, attack, attack_—and enough of a visual, an admission, to rid the ire from my voice.

I shake my head, the action fruitless as his words continue to push through, swim around in dizzying circles like a goldfish in a bowl.

"You're the person I'm meant to trust," I whisper hoarsely, all strength gone, throat sore from all the shouting. "The person who's supposed to be there for me."

He scrubs his forehead roughly, eyes squeezed shut.

I carry on, heart pouring; truth and pain and free falling water. "You're not just my husband," I say, "but my very best friend. Do you understand how hard that is?" Tears leak through the fissures. "Do you understand how hard it is to have both of those things ripped away in one fell swoop?"

He doesn't like my words, face turning to the side, blocking me out. "It's crushing," I press. "_Crushing_. You have your family, your work colleagues, and who do I have? No one, Edward. I only have you."

He swallows hard, brows low over his eyes. "You have your parents," he says, as if that's supposed to make everything better.

"I have _you_," I say slowly. "I should have _you_."

He shakes his head, only slightly, but it's enough for me to stop whatever it is he's about to say.

"You're not _getting it_." I have his attention again, frustration, _desperation_ driving me on. "Our situations... they're not the same and you know it. I can't speak to my parents about us... I _hate _it. I can't bear the thought of burdening them like that."

That crease appears between his brows again. "That's what family is there for, Bella. To support one another."

My mouth turns dry at his words. Desiccant. "_You're_ my family... why can't I talk to you?" I feel weak, tearful, a child who has been told 'no'.

"You can," he tells me, voice sounding hoarse, gritty, like sand caught between your teeth. "You can tell me whatever you want."

And I swipe at wet cheeks, the word 'liar' coating my tongue, pumping through me, surrounded by red. "Stop it."

He swallows hard, eyes unblinking. "I'm doing nothing."

"You're pretending, sugar coating. Evading. The list could go on."

Green eyes blaze, and there is no pretense here. "You think it didn't rip me to pieces when you walked out on me?" And his voice is low, deadly, full of a hurt I haven't seen until now. "I never thought you'd do that, Bella. _Ever_."

My lip trembles, vision blurry. "That isn't fair. I had to."

"I thought I could make you happy... keep you mine." His gaze flits to the side, no longer able to look at me. "I failed twice."

"I came back. I'll always come back, weak and pathetic, so in love with you... maybe too much."

He swallows hard, blinks quickly, hands forming tight fists. "Sometimes you make me feel like the biggest piece of shit on this planet."

Eyes widen, sore and swollen. "I don't mean to. I'd never..." My words die off, throat so tight I'm sure nothing more can pass through.

"You think I'm heartless... but I think nonstop about doing something: calling you, asking you what I should do because I'm so tired; so scared of making it worse. And that... it terrifies me. _Terrifies_ me."

I'm cold, tired, tear stained cheeks. Unblinking eyes look down at me. "Sometimes I wish I didn't love you."

My hand connects with his face, red palms and cheeks, heaving chests, and _oh god_.

Silence.

Loud breaths.

Half closed lids.

Then lips, on mine, his, crushing and punishing, drawing sounds out of me that are desperate, wanting, relieved.

He's pushing me backwards, hands tangled in my hair, not gentle, not giving me any room to push him away.

Warm chests and my fingers fist his shirt, twisting, pulling and pulling, uncaring as my back crashes into the wall. It hurts and he's taking, but then so am I, lips moving, making me remember. Harder and harder.

He's pulling at _me _now, making noises of his own as his tongue pushes into my mouth. And I'm shaking, warm, flushed cheeks.

I never want to stop.

But I do. Because even if my lips don't like this idea of moving away, a whimper in protest following, I don't want it to happen this way... No.

Hands coax but I wrench my mouth away. "Stop." It's breathless, and weak, but he does.

Eyes glimpse reddened lips and then his cheek is against mine, voice low in my ear. "I'm sorry."

My eyes close and suddenly I can't move. He feels too nice; wrong and right and please love me.

"Let me fix this," he goes on and my face crumples, because that's all I've wanted to hear. All I've wanted, _period_. Shaky breaths and tiny whispers. "_Please_."

I nod, unable to say anything, feeling his exhale in my hair. And I know he's scared... I am too.

I collapse into him and he lets me, and I don't know how long this lasts, but his lips are at my forehead, hesitant, telling me to sleep, that he'll see me in the morning, and I must have agreed, because I'm back in his room, staring at myself in the mirror.

I look different: better, a mess. And eyes that were once dull are now changed, a bit brighter, like new pennies.

And when I smile this time, it is not practiced, not forced. But real.

And even though it's only at half mast, a long way to go, it feels right; my cheeks like it, my heart.

_I_ like it.

My eyes catch something else. Something stuck to reflective glass. A yellow post-it. Bright like the sun.

_I do nothing but think; where we're going, what to do. But I think I've finally figured it out._

_It all comes down to the last person you think of at night. That's where your heart is._

_For me, that person is you._

I read again, fingertips hovering over ink once last time, his words seeping into my skin like liquid gold.

And this time my tears are ones of heart-hurting happiness.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**I'm not sure if I'll have another chapter up before Valentines Day, so I just want to say that I love you all for still reading. And that you're all pretty. xo**

**Also, my rec for this week is:**

** 'My Sweet Variable' by LifeInTheSnow. Like, seriously, this reads like a YA book to me rather than fanfiction. It's awesome. **

**Thank you so much reading.**

**VHL xx**


	15. Trouble Sleeping

**Hey everyone! Thank you for being so patient in between chapters as always.**

**I have some good news.**

**Now that I have finished EE, I will be able to dedicate more time to this story; so that means updates with be coming every ten to fourteen days from now on. :]**

**Thank you so much to my gorgeous beta Susan and lovely pre-reader Judy for fixing my mistakes. They are my hard working superstars. And huge thanks to Jen who forced me to sit down and write this. I'm easily distracted. **

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. **

* * *

Bella

The remnants of sleep lay heavily upon me, my eyes refusing to open, trapped within a dream. Here everything is pretty; fluffy white and golden like syrup, sticking me inside its regal bubble.

There are no worries, no smarting words or stinging hearts; no fumbling fingers or stony silence. Just light and honeyed warmth, shining behind my lids, all cotton-wool content and fleece-like comfort.

I think about last night, about the lowest lows and rising hope, tangled weeds and sun-tilted sunflowers; about heat-filled confessions and aching palms, backs against walls and wanting lips.

Whispered words that stuck to every part of me.

I open my eyes and everything feels hazy, milky white, my body heavy in the brightly lit room.

Paper crinkles beneath my cheek as I stir, a frown and lazy movements as I snatch and crease words that my eyes remember. That my whole body remembers.

Blinking lids and eyes that sweep from side to side, taking them in, over and over. They imprint themselves over my skin in his scrawl, in the _beat, beat, beat_, my own lips moving with their sound so I don't have a chance to forget them.

I reach below the other pillow and pull out his journal, sliding the little slip of buttercup yellow paper between words that weren't meant for my eyes; to keep it safe, to keep it company.

To keep it for him to find, just in case he ever forgets.

I flip a few pages, the book opening at a scribbled date I know so well: my birthday.

My gaze flies over his memory, and I remember this night, remember the tear streaked cheeks, the watering eyes that couldn't seem to stop flowing. The feel of the lipless, his excuses feeble and unheard.

He must have come back here, to this house, to this room that night, to a once favoured soul-baring ritual.

And I knew he hadn't been with me.

Because I hadn't wanted him to be.

**~CitP~**

"Bella?"

And his voice is quiet, whispered words in a confession box.

"I'm sorry," he says. And I've heard this so many times during the last eight months. So many times.

Tears squeeze from the corners of my lids, but I don't turn, don't speak; I pretend, I lie. I simply shut my eyes and hope for something else.

His breath hits my bare shoulder and covers my skin in prickly reminders—his touch is an even bigger one.

His lips trail down my arm and each little kiss is a stab in the dark—another stretch to the rapidly spreading tear in our relationship.

I waited all night; waited for him to walk through the door, waited for him to call me.

Anything.

Something.

He did neither.

The sun finally set behind the clouds, darkness creeping in like a thief in the night, concealing Edward within its inky blanket. It had left me with a pretty dress, ruby tipped fingertips—lipstick smudged from my lips—and a broken heart, the wages of war running down my face in black rivulets.

Lights put out, birthday candles left without a wish, without being lit, and I'd found cold sheets, alone.

"Say something... please," he begs, his presence the bolt of lightning in the middle of a storm.

His voice is all choked up, thick with hopelessness and despair. Guilt. But I don't want to speak to him... I _can't._

I don't want him to touch me, sleep beside me, tell me that he's sorry. Because right now... right now his apologies... they would mean nothing; empty words and clear panes, shattering what little there is left of my control.

Shattering my carefully crafted composure.

I'm scared of what I'll say in return, bitter and hurtful words on the tip of my tongue, set back and ready to fly, ready to puncture.

His fingers grip mine; linking us as one, shackling me to him.

He's trying to mend, trying to maintain this messed up cycle: he comes home, apologises, and I say nothing.

He is remorse in the perfect package.

But my hurt is no match for his right now.

His ring presses to mine, lies and metal that suffocates, banded around my finger, shrinking and shrinking, pinching my skin. But his attempt has the opposite effect—this reminder is nothing but a gaping wound, a black and bottomless pit that is shrouded in ghosts.

"Don't do this," he murmurs, as if he's the one in pain, as if I've done this to him.

He is a liar pulled from the boy I once knew.

"Who are you?" I spit; distaste and fire and hurt. His presence is a physical pain I want erased from every part of me, like the inkless pages of a book.

"I made a mistake. I didn't realise what time it was. I'm sorry."

His words are so sincere; so rehearsed. I have been to this play too many times and I want to leave.

"I don't know you," I tell him, staring blindly from my position on the bed, encompassed in sweet smelling darkness. In _him_.

The front of his teeth press against my skin. "You know me," he says.

And who is he trying to convince?

I shake my head on the pillow. "I don't. The _you_ I know... he would never have done this." I swallow against the lump in my throat. "You left me waiting for you for hours, Edward, sad and pathetic. You're cruel."

"It won't happen again," he assures me, his voice unconvincing the weakest at their strongest.

Lies, so many lies.

I feel a sob build in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut tight, building walls around me as I refuse to give it an out.

"Tell me you love me," he implores, his face hidden in the dark. But I won't. I won't make him feel better about himself. I won't take away his guilt.

"I don't like you right now, Edward," I tell him spitefully, uncaring of his reaction. Because right now, it's how I feel. Right now, he is the man who is responsible for all this hurt: all these bad decisions and ugly truths.

I hear his intake of breath, deep and hard—a time giver—and take one of my own.

"You don't mean that," he tells me, as if he gets to make that choice.

And... don't I? I think I do. I_ know_ I do.

"It was my birthday, Edward," I say, my voice both strong and weak. Flesh and bone. Distant cries and sing-song articulation.

His response is shaky. "I know," he exhales.

"You promised," I continue, all gritted teeth and swollen eyes.

Tightening fingers and, "I said I was sorry."

His fire is back, his irritation. I want to laugh, but can't.

"It's not enough, not enough, not enough," I list off, the words repeating themselves in my head long after I've finished speaking them out loud. "Not this time," I murmur.

The words sound so final; another nail in the coffin.

He's tense behind me, forehead against my shoulder, at a stalemate. There is no crack in my resolve for him to slip through tonight.

He is a man made of broken promises.

I am limestone eroded by channeling tears.

And he's hurt me one too many times.

**~CitP~**

And after a time, he stopped apologising for not coming home; for missing visits to my parents and meals I'd spent hours preparing.

After a time, I learnt that his promises meant nothing.

And I think this is what is so frightening right now.

_Let me fix this._

I want to believe him, so much, anticipation as strong as the push and pull of the ocean.

And reading his words, his account and honesty on these pages, they threaten to excuse what he could not in person that day.

_I purposely missed her birthday. We'd been fighting non-stop for months, and I was so terrified of seeing that look in her eye, the one that let me know her day was no longer special. The one that told me I knew I'd had a big hand in ruining it. I didn't want her to look at me like that, I wanted her to look at me like she used to, so I was a coward, and sat in my office, watching the minutes pass. I knew it would hurt her, knew it and still did nothing. I could have called. But then so could she. Every time I did something wrong... it was almost as if she wanted me to fail. Almost as if she was waiting for the disappointment. And I gave it to her, no questions asked. I became the person she wanted. The person she thinks I am now._

_I'd rather she hate me for this, put the blame here, than have her look at me like she no longer loves me. Because I love her, I just don't how to stop it from becoming destructive. Her anger was better than her tears. Or so I thought._

_When I got home, and found her in the dark, crying quietly so as not to alert me to her tears, I hated myself. _

_Knowing my wife was crying because of something I did was sickening. It made me feel less like a man and more like the child I really am inside._

_She wouldn't talk to me. Wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't let me turn on the light so I could see her face._

_And it was my fault, yet I wanted to blame her for all of this. Maybe hate her a little, too, just because _I can't_. I can't blame her. Can't hate her._

_Our relationship has turned in to something I no longer recognise._

_Who are we? _

I swallow thickly, quickly slamming the journal closed. His words twist in my stomach, and I try to think, try to remember why I didn't call, why I just continued to sit there and wait.

I think it was just because I wanted him to _want _us enough. I shouldn't have to remind someone to love me.

And contrary to his beliefs, I never once wanted him to fail. I wanted him with me, smiling and laughing and holding my hair back as I blew out my candles.

It's another example of the damage silence can cause; the shot out into the night that you never hear coming.

There is a sudden knock at the door, my heart jumping to my throat as I hide the evidence that has my head spinning.

He doesn't wait for an answer, his body slipping through the gap moments later, dressed immaculately in his jet-black suit, devastatingly confident in his own skin.

I grip the bed covers between eager fingers as his eyes flick to mine, the very sight of him my complete undoing.

He runs a hand from his forehead to his hair before stepping further into the room, the slight hesitation in his movement vanishing as he looks away again.

He sits a little ways down the bed, mattress dipping ever so slightly under his weight, and I can't stop staring at the line of his jaw, the light layer of stubble that covers it, his mouth as his tongue comes out to wet his lips as he takes a deep breath.

His physical features still affect me as much as they did the very first time I saw him, his gaze piercing and provoking, his attention seat-shifting and antsy-exciting.

But it is nothing compared to what's hidden away inside.

Inside, he is the man who can make me burn with a single look. He is the boy who rode his bike to my house in the rain, the boy who chased me up stairs and kissed me until we were both breathless.

The boy who captured my heart inside the palm of his hand.

And when the two are combined, he is unstoppable, unavoidable, overwhelmingly lovable.

Maybe too much.

His eyes cut to mine and my face feels hot, my chest, a butterfly trapped in a jar, wings to the glass as my heart beats crazily. I curl my right arm over my chest to my left shoulder, hand balancing on bare skin, fingertips still.

I've inadvertently created some form of shield over my wildly pumping red-beat muscle, and I wonder if he can hear it, almost certain that he can. It seems so loud to me, swallowing me whole like a pill, crashing over me like the single hit of a drum as it resonates through my bones like chattering teeth.

I'm not sure how to act, how to go forward, the very sight of him stripping my mind bare, leaving me with nothing but an empty blackboard, the white-chalk words wiped clean.

My teeth find my lip, remembering _his_ lips on them, fierce desperation in the form of scotch kisses and warm tongues. Anger with an amber burn. It makes my tummy tingle, the feeling spreading through my chest on a wave, warming my neck, flushing my skin a consuming pink.

His fingers pluck at his brow, eyes diverting, but only for a second. And then they're back, looking at me, a question forming on his lips, blush like sugar-sweet candy.

"How did you sleep?" he wonders, studying my expression with careful scrutiny.

I take a deep breath, thinking about the note he'd left in here for me, the smile that had graced my mouth and made me feel truly alive. "Not that great," I answer honestly, swallowing quickly. "It took me a while to finally be able to close my eyes."

He nods, his palm moving from his thigh to his face—he gets it.

"I couldn't switch my thoughts off long enough to gain any momentum," I add, just to make sure he does.

He rubs his jaw and that scratch sound I love causes goose bumps to travel along my arms and up my spine. I want to reach out and create the same kind of butterfly-inducing music.

"Me either," he admits quietly, almost as if it's a secret, one that I'd been so, so desperate to hear.

Confessions slowly dimmer to a low drone and the following silence cripples. I want to crawl over the sheets to where he is, slide my palm next to his, fingers to fingers and let the fibres bind.

My head raises and I see where his gaze is directed, the mirror now free of a sticky-back square of paper. I want to bring it up, but I hesitate, unsure of how he'll react. I bite the inside of my cheek and find Edward staring at me as I divert my attention back to him, almost as if he's waiting for me to say something.

"This shouldn't be so awkward," I voice, hating how far away he's sitting from me; hating this second guessing that flourishes from seed to sapling whenever he's around.

"It's because it matters," he muses, sliding his gaze away from me. "If it didn't, it wouldn't be awkward."

I don't miss the 'because it matters'—don't miss the tone of his voice when he says it; don't miss the fact he was actually the one to make the effort and seek me out this morning.

I suddenly become conscious of how I must look, still in my pyjamas, tangled up in sheets with sleep-messed hair. A stark contrast to him. I look at the clock, noticing the hour for the first time all morning.

I need to get up, shower, head into work when all I want to do is sink back into sheets and dream of him.

Pulling back the covers, I slide forward and swing my legs to the edge of the mattress, conscious of Edward watching me, even after I'm on my feet in front of him.

His neck bends, head tilting as he looks up at me, his eyes green and black and staring at me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter inside my chest.

He watches me openly, making my cheeks pink, my mouth dry, my body tingle.

Making my lips part and words flow.

"Thank you for the note," I say, my voice little more than a whisper, unable to stop myself from telling him that.

Uncertainty hovers above the heavily guarded parts inside of me like mist, but I blow it away like bubbles through a wand, creating something beautiful and eye-opening instead.

His brows furrow, thick and low above his lashes. "I sometimes find it easier to write down what I'm feeling rather than speaking it out loud," he admits, and I want to tell him _I know,_ but I can't let him find out that a leather-bound collection of his thoughts have been my favoured reading material of late.

I decide to be honest in another way instead, knowing we need this; knowing we need to recover so much more.

"It made me really happy," I say, looking him in the eye. "You made me smile for the first time in so long."

His gaze moves around the room, scanning the bookshelf in front of him, breaking our connection. "I should have told you sooner," he replies, a shaky breath passing through my lips as he runs a hand through his hair.

I want them to be my fingers, and my hands squeeze into fists by my sides to quash the impulse before I do something stupid that shouldn't be stupid at all.

"Rose called this morning," he says, changing the subject. I can't tell if he's embarrassed or annoyed with himself, but I don't push him to explain. I know I'm going to need patience... we both are.

I remember my agreement with her yesterday and shift my left foot a little on the carpet, wondering if he knows what our conversation had been about. "She said she would," I recount evasively, watching him closely.

"She asked if it was okay to come by after you finished work, and I told her that should be fine," he says. "Was that okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, that's fine," I assure him. He kneads the back of his neck with his palm as I regard him. "What time?" I ask, just to make sure we don't get any wires crossed.

"Six, I think," he replies, wetting his lips.

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Okay."

He gets to his feet but doesn't leave, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. "She asked you then," he says, clearing his throat.

It's more a statement than a question. It also gives me my answer.

"She came by the store yesterday," I confirm. "I was surprised to see her waiting there for me," I share, rubbing my bare arm.

His green is on me once more, his stance easy. "Emmett sees you as a sister," he responds. "You really shouldn't be surprised they asked you."

I wrap my arms around myself, all this talk of weddings making my heart ache. "I guess not," I say quietly, wanting nothing more in that moment than to be hugged.

He checks his watch, exhaling heavily. "I have to get to work, but... can we do something tomorrow, just you and me?" he asks, explains and wonders.

His words hold a cautious edge, almost as if he's afraid I'm going to say no.

But what he doesn't know is that my heart has already decided, long before my mind has had chance to catch up.

I'm also apparently taking too long.

"Do you have plans again?" he asks, his words a little harder this time. And I don't know where this is coming from, but I quickly shake my head.

"No, I don't have any other plans," I answer him, feeling my brow crinkle.

He pulls one of his hands from his pocket to run through his hair. "Okay, I just wanted to ask you beforehand... just in case someone else asks in the meantime."

I become all too aware of what he's referring to, or rather, _who_, and keep my mouth shut, that awkward tension rolling through his body as he looks back at me.

"I need to go shower," I tell him, turning to get my things ready.

His hand catches my arm before I get very far, his thumb against my pulse, his touch warm, bringing me to a standstill.

I look back over my shoulder, his body coming closer as he takes a step forward.

He looks at me for a long moment, his thumb all the while running across the thrumming in my wrist. "Have a good day at work, Bella."

He looks from my eyes to my lips and back again as I reply, "You too."

My hand falls to my side as he steps past me out of the room, my skin still tingly.

I quickly gather my things and step out too, not wanting to be late for work.

XXX

It's been busier today in the store, the good weather enticing people from their homes with the call of sunshine.

I spend an hour talking to a middle-aged woman about the lack of funding for books in local schools before stepping out for lunch.

I go to my local deli, smiling at Jacob who's already smiling at me from behind the counter.

"The usual?" he asks like clockwork.

I nod, handing over the correct money, knowing the amount by heart now. "Thank you."

Sandwich, coffee and pastry in hand, I make the brief walk to my spot, loving the feel of the heat on my cheeks and slight sea breeze in my hair.

A man who looks to be in his sixties is sitting reading a newspaper at the opposite end of the bench when I get there, and I set my things down at the other end, not minding the company or the rustling sound of paper as he turns a page.

I'm halfway through my lunch when my phone chirps with a text message, the mouthful of coffee in my cheeks swallowed slowly as I fish my cell out of my bag.

Jasper's name highlights my message box and I open the message with only a little trepidation.

_I understand you've been recently promoted to bridesmaid._ _Good work, soldier._

I laugh lightly, shaking my head at his silliness before catching myself, feeling the ache in my cheeks.

Edward's words from earlier push themselves to the forefront of my thoughts, the look on his face when he asked me if I had plans.

This is where that second guessing comes into play. I feel like I'm doing something wrong... when in actuality all I'm doing is making a friend.

I think.

I'm so confused. I don't like Jasper... not like that. He's attractive, but so are a lot of people.

Whenever I'm around him, I feel simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable, easy and awkward. I can talk to him openly, which is something that's been lacking in my marriage with Edward.

And perhaps that's where I'm getting caught up. He's laughter, a different type of connection, a feeling I can't quite shake off; raincoats that still carry the effects of the weather.

If he accidentally brushes against me, I feel my cheeks warm, all pink petal heat. If I catch him staring, however, I don't feel like I'll stop breathing.

It's different, and not better, but enough to get me all twisted up like a ball of yarn.

I slip my phone back into my bag without sending anything back, irritated with both myself and Edward for spoiling something that should be innocent.

But then, if that's truly the case, why am I getting so worked up?

I finish the rest of my sandwich and spend the remaining minutes of my lunch break watching the birds soar across the water.

XXX

I'm tense, glancing every few minutes at the clock above the mantle, like a swinging pendulum, back and forth.

Rosalie is running a few minutes late, and I'm wishing more and more that I hadn't agreed to this.

I'm considering phoning to cancel, my teeth worrying my lip, when I hear the sound of tires on gravel.

I get to my feet, rising on tip toes as I look out through the window. I hear a car door shut, followed by another, and another, and frown.

I was simply expecting Rose to show up here alone. Confused, I take another glance, and immediately recognise Emmett's car in the driveway.

My blood runs cold, the first fall of snow in winter, and I get that nauseous feeling in my stomach when I realise who else is with her.

The door opens, Emmett's voice echoing out in the foyer. "Bella?"

Taking a deep breath I make my way out of the lounge, forcing a smile on my face. "Hey, Em," I greet.

He kisses my cheek lightly, his arm around my shoulder. "Thanks for doing this," he whispers in my ear as I watch Kate close the door to the house.

Turning my attention back to him, I shake my head, letting him know he doesn't need to do that. "It's fine," I lie, not wanting to spoil this for him.

"Sorry we're late," Rose breathes, smiling at me as she adjusts the garment bag over her arm. "My car wouldn't start, and Jazz was out, so we had to wait for Em to get home." She gets this look on her face and sighs. "I have your number now, I should have called. I'm sorry," she says, a small frown forming above her blue eyes.

"It's fine," I answer, knowing it's not going be the last time I say this in the next however-many-minutes they're going to be here.

Em walks off into the kitchen and Rosalie's lips curl into a wide, excited grin. "Ready to see the dress?" she asks, frown gone.

"Okay," I answer, my eyes flitting to Kate as I notice she has her own bag over her arm.

She isn't looking at me, but then she isn't purposely _not_ looking at me either.

The last time I saw her she had her hand on my husband's face. To say I'm comfortable with her being here would be a lie.

"Where should we...?" Rose juts her arm out a little, emphasising the dress, asking a question without fully saying the words.

I'm about to say 'the bedroom', when I pause, not wanting anyone else in the space that holds so many memories; in the space that holds so much of _Edward_.

"In here's fine," I say, leading them into the other room.

And there's that word again.

Rose makes quick work of the zipper as she lays the garment bag out flat on the sofa, her hands careful, however, as she reaches inside to pull the dress out.

And it's even prettier in person than it was in the picture.

It's sun-blushed peach perfect that reaches the ground. The straps are thin, delicate, the material holding so much movement, reminding me of the weight of water as it falls from a towering height.

I'm hesitant to put it on, wishing I'd never agreed to this; never agreed to be paraded in front of a room full of people I don't know.

In front of a room full of people _I do_.

"Emmett, don't come back here until I say so," Rosalie shouts, her voice shocking me from my thoughts.

He laughs from somewhere in the kitchen. "You spoil all my fun," he yells back.

"Sorry," she smiles, noticing the expression on my face. "I forget how loud my voice can be sometimes."

She opens another bag, pulling out a stack of pins and the like. It suddenly occurs to me who's going to be fitting my dress, if alterations need to be made.

"You sew?" I ask, catching her off guard.

She wraps a fabric tape measure around her neck. "Not really, but I know how to pin a dress," she answers, telling Kate to slip on her own bridesmaid's dress for comparison. "I'll just drop this back at the store for them to fix tomorrow," she smiles.

I feel shy getting undressed in front of them both, but tell myself to stop being stupid. Rose buttons Kate up before they both come to help me.

Rose beams and Kate gets this soft look on her face, her now familiar red painted nails smoothing down the fabric.

"This colour is so pretty on you," she tells me, no hint of falsehood in her tone. "It really compliments your colouring."

I don't want her hands on me; don't want her giving me compliments. I don't trust her, so it changes things.

And if she thinks it suits me, then it definitely suits her. She's all polished lovely and long lashes. A kind face under any other circumstance.

"Thank you," I say quietly as Rose pins a few areas in the back.

She runs a hand over her own dress, swaying the ends of the silk gently at the bottom. "The colour is similar to what I had at my own wedding," she offers, and my eyes snap back up to her face.

"You're married?" I ask, not having to look at her hand to know she doesn't wear a ring.

Her eyes meet mine for a moment before looking away again. "No," she answers as Rosalie pulls my hair out from the neckline.

"It's almost a perfect fit," Rosalie interrupts, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from asking the questions I really want to know the answers to.

Kate takes a step forward, turning to stand beside me as she and Rose switch sides. She's a little taller than me, her hair straight while mine curls ever so slightly at the ends.

"Perfect," Rosalie smiles, putting a few loose pins back into the bag they came from.

Kate turns and I'm about to ask one of them to undo the buttons when the room falls quiet.

I look up, all thoughts vanishing with a flutter of lashes as I follow the gaze of the woman next to me.

Edward is standing in the doorway, his eyes on me, moving up and down before pausing on my face.

My cheeks instantly feel warm and the look in his eyes makes my chest tight when I breathe, a feeling that I'd missed, different than the one that accompanies falling tears.

He traps me in place, all honey tones in the fading light of the day.

Words form awkwardly at my lips; stop and start and hide with a bashful glance.

His attention shifts to _perfect _beside me, immediately feeling that ache in my chest, knowing all too well what plummeting back to earth feels like.

The breath leaves my lungs and I can't stand to look at either of them.

"You all look lovely," Edward says, stepping further into the room.

I turn, my back to him, ignoring Rosalie's voice as she tells him she's in a plain cotton sundress, so to leave her out of the compliments.

Someone else enters the room, and thinking it's Emmett, I twist back around, needing to get out of this dress. But my feet are stuck and my thoughts calm as I watch Jasper leaning against the doorway next to Emmett.

His eyes flick to mine even as he addresses his sister. "I got your message," he tells her.

My own gaze naturally falls to Edward, who looks between the two of us with a cold stare.

The tension in the room threatens to suffocate and just when I think I'll stop breathing, Rose speaks. "Could you take us home, Jazz? Emmett needs the car."

He nods, looking at her this time as he answers. "Sure."

I heave a quiet sigh of relief at them leaving and make the mistake of looking back up.

"Did you get my message earlier?" Jasper asks, pushing himself from the doorway as he pulls his car keys from his pocket.

I resist the urge to squeeze handfuls of my dress, and nod instead.

Kate comes back into the room, putting an end to the questioning as she brushes past Jasper, her dress in hand.

I didn't even realise she'd left to change.

"Bella?" Rosalie says as she places a hand on my shoulder. "I'll come by for the dress tomorrow, and get out of your hair."

I nod, managing a smile. "Okay. Thank you."

I watch as Kate helps gather the few bags they brought with them before saying bye to Edward as she passes him by the door with a small smile.

"Bye, guys," Jasper calls over his shoulder as he holds the door open for his sister.

The house is quieter, the awkwardness still present as Edward remains silent.

"I'll meet you by the car," Emmett says to Edward before coming over to give me another kiss on the cheek.

"You going somewhere?" I ask, looking at Edward.

The front door closes behind Emmett as he answers me. "Em wants to go grab something to eat."

"Oh," I say, trying not to think about the last time I was left alone in a house wearing a pretty dress.

He doesn't offer for me to go with them and I don't ask. "Do you need anything while I'm out?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "No."

He licks his lips, hands back in his pockets. "Okay."

"Could... Before you go, could you help me with the buttons on the back of this, please?" My voice is small, nervous, the flapping wings of a bird.

He looks me over for a second time, setting me alight, my eyelids feeling heavy as I fight the urge to let them fall shut.

I don't know what to do with my hands as he walks over, my heart crazy inside my chest.

He steps behind me, his fingertips brushing my skin with each small button opened. I shiver, my breathe shaky as I try to calm, all contained vibrations.

I wrap my arms around the material of the dress tightly. It won't slip, the buttons don't fall that low, but I can't stand and do nothing.

His thumb brushes against the back of my hand as he moves to stand in front of me, his voice low as he runs his fingers through his hair. "All finished."

My shoulders lose their tension. "Thank you," I say, blinking quickly.

He's so close, unmoving, and I look up, meeting a stubbled chin and inviting lips. His head tilts, eyes holding mine until the very last second, the tips of his hair brushing against my own dark strands.

I'm frozen in place, unable to move. Not that I want to. His warmth is addictive, the familiar scent of his cologne adhering itself to my skin.

I want to slide my hands beneath his jacket, get lost in expensive comfort.

His tie grazes my shoulder as he steps closer, goose bumps prickling my skin with a cold shiver.

His lips at my ear, whispering words that are the best kind of sunrise. "You look more than lovely. You look beautiful."

For just a second there is only me and him, a second that is worth a thousand others.

His lips brush my cheek, feather soft light, and I finally let my eyes drift closed as I hear the front door close behind him.

XXX

Sleep won't come. My eyes close, fluttering lashes, a blind search beyond, but I can't switch off.

The night is still; no wind, no rain, no creaking floorboards. Only restless limbs on dark cotton sheets.

There is no peace here, no reprieve, just sleep-lusted electric thrumming through my veins: vibrant blues and purples that fizz like sherbet.

I think about Edward's lips on my cheek earlier.

I think about a line from his journal I'd read before attempting to sleep.

_We're us, no one else can change that._

Maybe not anyone else.

But _we_ could.

We _did_.

We let ourselves get to this point. Not to hurt, not to spite, but to guard, protect what scared us the most.

Life is hard. Marrying so young, becoming so utterly consumed... any little change, any little chip to that bubble is seen as an attack, a poison that seeps its way into the bloodstream.

The small things get blown up; a balloon to the lips, and blow, push, bigger and bigger until it bursts wide open: a shocked silence, a thumping fear-beat heart.

Shaking hands and fleeing words, and all that's left behind is this shell... this pretty, pretty shell that promises so much.

And I think that's the hardest part to deal with.

There was no one else. Just us. Just life. Just a flurry of every day obstacles that hit over and over, their point accurate and sharp, knowing just where to hit.

Knowing just where it would hurt the most.

And it's terrifying, because you want an instigator, a life-course changer... _something_, anyone else to blame but yourselves. That way you can fix it. Have a mark, a starting off point: head bent, gun fired, and fly.

Run.

Off.

But without it... it's impossible to hide from. Because you can't hide from life. You're forced to live it. One way or another.

And now... the doubt is at its strongest, even though there is nothing more I want in this world than for me and Edward to be okay—for our hearts to mend themselves and go back to the beginning.

Because if we weren't able to handle it together before, if we let it defeat us once, what's to stop it from happening again?

What are the signs, the flashing lights and screamed warnings that burn inside your lungs? The heat on your finger before a flame?

_Myself. Myself. Myself._

It's me. I'm my own warning.

Edward, his.

I just hope I'll know what to look for this time, cross that finish line and push aside the false starts.

Because we'll have them.

It just remains to be seen how we'll deal with them this time around.

Those self inflicted wounds.

I swallow back the salt tears in my eyes, from the back of my throat and roof of my mouth, and pull in a deep breath through my nose.

Time is lead in my hands and I just wish these ghosts were gone.

I try to clear my head for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, the ticking clock in the room a time bomb, counting down the seconds until my imminent implode.

My body feels heavy and my chest feels tight, and I hate that the space beside me is empty.

And closing my eyes to think of somewhere else doesn't help me this time.

I know what's keeping me awake. It's the same thing that has been for what feels like an eternity; an eternity of hollow hearts and empty lungs. An eternity of smiling eyes and kissing lips.

An eternity of pretending neither of those things exists.

I think about reading. I think about sitting up and drinking the glass of water on my beside table. I think about doing a lot of things. But only one seems to matter. One that both terrifies me and fills me with warmth, flushing my cheeks with the hue of a multitude of reasons. One that is screaming and screaming and won't be ignored any longer, tattooing itself beneath expanding ribs.

I count to thirty—count my breaths and wish for lullabies—but the sheets are cold. And I don't want to be alone.

My toes curl into the carpet as I perch uncertainly on the edge of the mattress, my fingers tugging the end of my tank top back over my stomach as my hair falls over my left shoulder. It tickles my skin on its descent and adds to my nervous longing.

Edward would always play with my hair while I was sleeping; while we both drifted to dreams that were never as good as that moment right there.

His touch was always gentle, swirling finger tips like plant life in the ocean; comfort and serenity and easy love. Long nights in summertime heat. Cool cotton kisses. Matching heartbeats.

I run my hands through the strands and it isn't the same. It will never be the same.

I push myself up, muffled footsteps that seem to know the way, leading me through the door and into the darkened hallway.

It's here I pause, wondering where he is, what room he's closed himself off in since coming home.

I start to move once more, knowing hesitation will only cripple what impulse I have left—crush it to ash within a steel grip—and walk quietly down the long corridor, and another, until I'm at the opposite side of the house.

My eyes adjust to the dark and the thump of my heart is thundering in my ears. His parents' room is empty, door open and still the same. My fingers curl around the handle to Emmett's old room and there is nothing but boxes and an unmade bed, a forgotten poster tacked to the wall that I can't make out.

I pass Alice's room completely, knowing he wouldn't be in there; he didn't talk to his sister all that much when we were growing up, so he wouldn't find solace in there now.

And that's when I see it, that tiny fragment of light coming from the room at the end of the hall.

I push the door open slowly, the natural light of the moon bathing everything in its pearl-like glow. Edward is sound asleep on top of the covers... or so I assume. The rise and fall of his chest looks even, and I'm afraid to wake him; afraid he'll open his eyes and question why I'm here. Because I don't have an answer, I just have a feeling, an inherent want that won't let me sleep, crushing my chest with the weight of its desperation.

This shouldn't feel wrong, I shouldn't feel fear. This is normal, natural, a human comfort. He's my husband, my tether, the person at the other end of the string. I just want to sleep... be near him. If only for a little while.

The room is practically empty; it's cold and bare and holds nothing of anybody in his family. I don't know why he's here.

I close the door softly behind me, not quite letting it catch, leaving it exactly how I'd found it, not wanting to create another shift in our already spinning world.

Shivers tremble across my skin, like the breeze through the trees on a tempestuous day. And before I can change my mind, I carefully lower myself to the mattress beside him, immediately struck by his warmth and scent and the relief inside my chest.

The urge to get closer and closer and closer, like magnetic hearts, a matching pair, is an insistent tug, threatening to overpower me.

He shows no signs of being aware that I'm here, no shift of his body or change in his breathing.

His face is turned towards mine on the pillows, and I'm afraid to touch him, afraid of what will happen if I do.

But that urge won't let up, and I can't stop myself from reaching out.

I start off small, running my fingers over his hand between us, over the ridges of his knuckles, half reassured that he hasn't woken, half scared that he will.

My fingertips slide over his jaw, feeling the scratchy stubble on his skin, finally getting to make my music.

My touch is feather-light and pulse-racing, and I'm unable to look away, unable to stop.

They sweep down the bridge of his nose, down his throat and back up to his chin, pausing at his lips. My hands are nerve-shaken with so much want, so much need, so much unplaced fear, adrenaline a circus ride inside my veins.

I pull my hand away a few moments later, feeling the onslaught of tears burn my eyes. I don't know what I'm doing here, hate that I feel so misplaced, and am about to leave when I notice his eyes are open, staring right at me.

I stop breathing, eyes wide as embarrassment heats my cheeks in the dark, his gaze a green-spun web that holds me in place.

Time slows, becomes meaningless as I get caught up in shadows. He doesn't say anything, just_ looks_, and I'm too shocked to move.

The sheets stir as he shifts closer, his hand finding my cheek, thumb lazily stroking my skin before he places his palm over crazy, crazy, crazy.

"I can feel your heart," he whispers, hand on my chest. "It's beating so fast."

It knows him. Likes his attention. Loves his palm right there.

He picks up my hand, placing it over his own heart, and I still, feeling that tick-tick, thump-thump beneath my palm.

His eyes hold mine, and that beat is so fast below my touch.

"What do you want, Bella?" he asks. And it's not unkind, just a question.

But does he mean now?

Tomorrow?

Forever?

"I just want to lie next to you," I tell him with a whisper. "I just want to sleep."

His breathing is loud in the quiet of the room. "I can only give you what I've got," he says, his eyes showing the first hint of vulnerability I've seen in a long time.

He's scared, just like I am.

My lips part. "That's all I want," I answer, trying to make him see.

He studies my face, gaze back and forth between my eyes. "What if it's not enough?" he questions, his hand still keeping mine in place on his chest.

I blink back tears. "It will be," I tell him. "I'll make it enough."

He removes his hand from my skin, and lifts his arm in silent invitation. I curl into his warm chest, burrowing my face into his T-shirt, my hand still over his heart, there with his.

And just as I think he's fallen asleep, his breathing now even, his other hand moves to my hair, playing with it so softly, the very best of aches blooming in my chest.

It's like first kisses. First embarrassed glances. First smiles.

His breath is hot on my skin, his face closer, the best kind of _I'm here_. The best kind of burn.

I close my eyes and feel my cheeks become sun-kissed by his lips, on and off until I eventually fall asleep.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter. **

**Or if you would rather not have a teaser with your reply, just let me know.**

**I have a couple of recs this week. **

**First one is: 'Dusty' by YellowBella. It owns me right now. It's so well written and utterly consuming and will have you instantly hooked. Please read and leave some love.**

**And my fic wife aWhiteBlankPage wrapped up 'Pocket Change' yesterday. It is beautiful and has so much heart, and if you're not reading, you're missing out on a wonderful story.**

**You'll find both stories under my favourites list.**

**I will see you in a couple of weeks.**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	16. Open Your Eyes

**Hey everyone! I hope you all had the best weekend.**

**The biggest thanks to Susan for beta'ing, and to Jen for saving me from ruin, and to Judy for pre-reading.**

** They are all gorgeousness and I'm so, so lucky to have them with me.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.**

* * *

Bella

This morning, something is different. I'm warm, hugged within a caramel beam of skin-prickling sun, one that is meant just for me.

It surrounds me, caressing my flushed feeling skin, warming from the inside out, all liquid sunshine that trickles through my veins.

It's like relaxing days on the beach; sticky, hot fudge kisses and wandering fingers that tease and ignite.

The sheets aren't cold this morning, aren't bare: the bed dips, and there is soft music that disturbs my hair in the form of gentle exhales that don't belong to me.

I never want to stop hearing it, the sound and feeling tickling something inside of me that startles the best kind of hope, waking it up from its hazy daydream to the bright surrounding colours of the man behind me.

It's heart-stoppingly familiar, and better, and I don't ever want to leave—I don't ever want him to let me go.

I'm comfortably sleepy, drifting among the remnants of sleep on a cloudy wave, where memories tease and thrill, playing with my heart, drawing it out from its hiding place with promises that have the potential to burst.

It's then that full remembrance hits, a wrecking ball wrapped in pillow-soft bubbles that pop, turning me into dust; into glitter that is blown from the palm of a fairy as consciousness kisses my lids wide open.

And for the first time in months, when lashes flutter away the fog of sleep, I'm not alone.

The room is alive with early morning light and I'm suddenly scared to move, my lips pressing shut, trapping breaths that shake inside my chest as I release them quietly through my nose, afraid to make a sound, even a ghost of a whisper.

My gaze drifts, finding an arm around my waist, the very best kind of possessive weight that shackles me in more places than the flesh above my hip.

The bed covers are low on my thighs and I have to resist the urge to tug them back up and hide in forts made of soft, apple green cotton. But I carry on looking, gaze sweeping a little further, pausing at the curve of a hand.

I know those fingers, know that scar on the back of that palm, remember how it got there, how he fell first to stop me from hurting.

I trace the imperfection that speaks of perfect with my eyes, over and over, the little line of pink on pink.

I haven't been caught like that in a long time.

There have been grazed knees and bleeding hearts, stinging tears and smarting aches. But no soft landings: no tears swept away with the pad of a thumb; no lingering kisses to the forehead that brush and whisper and love.

No reassuring eyes that tell me everything is going to be okay.

And I think that's what I miss the most, that confidence, that unwavering safety net that spoke of a lie.

I look away, gaze fleeing like a frightened animal as I swallow against memories that build in my throat and pinch the space beneath my ribs like punishing fingertips.

And I'm not sure if he's awake, or if it's simply an unconscious movement made in sleep, but his arm suddenly shifts, palm warm against my skin as it slides to the opposite side of my waist.

The new position frays my nerves and ignites my desires, the fizz of a sparkler in an inky-black sky, so familiar, creating butterflies that flutter with an incessant intensity.

I warm and flush and burn; my fingers dig into the pillow beneath my head. I want to turn over and press my lips to the hollow of his throat, taste his salt, his skin, feel his pulse beneath my tongue. Make it beat faster, faster, faster.

Above all, make it mine.

Slowly, just in case he really is sleeping, I shift to my back, head turning to the side, facing his on the pillows—I'm met with my favourite shade of green, a dying wish before breaths fade.

I blink sleepily, watching him watch me, his sleep mussed hair and just-woken gaze tugging at strings that pluck my heart. It makes me think of wise words from a mother who has only ever wanted the best for her daughter:

'_You can erase something from your mind, Bella. But the impact it leaves on your heart is harder to scratch out.'_

This is going to be one of those moments; one that leaves tiny little footprints all over my being.

Eyes drifting just barely, I meet the clock behind his head, finding numbers that hastily hit that pause button.

It's well gone midday, and he's here... with _me_.

I feel another one of those maybe smiles tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You're not at work," I say quietly, stating the obvious as I feel that happiness bloom and bloom: it's a newborn flower I never want to wilt.

His gaze shifts briefly to the pillow beneath my head before focusing back on my face. "No," he says lowly, eyes piercing, gauging my reaction as he traps me like honey.

And I feel... so much, my emotions a tidal wave that crash over me, stealing my breath.

I can't remember the last time he took the day off work; the last time he wanted to spend time with just me.

He continues to stare. "You look surprised," he comments, his voice still thick with sleep.

I take a moment to answer. "I am," I say honestly, licking my lips, trying to bring moisture back into my mouth.

He licks his own in response, sliding his hand beneath his pillow. "I told you yesterday," he starts, breaking off as he clears his throat. "I asked you if we could do something."

I bite the inside of my cheek—he did. But Edward has said a lot of things in the past; let me down time and time again.

I wasn't sure if this was going to be another one of those occurrences.

Thoughts shifting, I feel a brief stab of panic as I realise there's something I've forgotten, too wrapped up in green eyes and distanced warmth. "The bookstore... I need to phone them," I say.

"I already did," he replies before I can move, and the muscles in my arms literally _ache_, yearning to reach out and hold him.

"You did?" I ask, my voice tight with emotion.

He nods, his head on the pillow, hair scratching against cotton: two soft and brief movements. "Yes." I hear his inhale and want to follow it. "I didn't want to wake you," he admits. "I know you've been tired... and you looked so peaceful." His voice quietens on that last bit, volume turned low.

I imagine my cheeks are rosy pink, and resist the urge to press the tips of my fingers to them to see if they're matching warm.

"What did you want to do?" I ask, teeth finding the inside of my lip.

He gets quiet again, just staring, and a shiver scurries down my spine, the tension thick and uncurling like a roll of ribbon.

The gap between us suddenly seems so small; the urge to close the distance a demanding beat of a drum. I want his arms back around me like last night, his chest under my cheek, his beat beneath my ear.

"I was thinking we could go out to eat. Get breakfast food for lunch," he answers.

I swallow heavily, feeling light and free, dandelion seeds blown with a purse of lips.

My fingers curl beneath my pillow and the smallest of smiles graces my mouth. "Okay," I agree, pushing the hair from my face as I look away.

His fingers are suddenly on my cheek, brushing wayward strands of hair gently from my skin, momentarily twirling a piece around his finger, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I raise my hand and get to trace the veins in his wrist for maybe five seconds before he leaves the bed without another word.

My arm lowers back to the mattress and I don't turn and speak as I hear the door open and close behind me; the scuff of wood against the carpet, the lone sound of my breath in the room.

It stings, his quick and silent departure, but this is going to take work. Our situation, however much I may want it to, is not going to change after one night.

Allowing myself ten seconds with eyes closed and breaths deep beneath ribs, I get up and head for the shower, determined not to dwell or let this put a fault in our step.

This crack, I walk around.

This crack, I pretend isn't even a crack at all.

XXX

When I get downstairs I find him standing with his back to me in the living room. He's in a pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved, blue cotton t-shirt: no suit, no tamed hair, no crooked tie.

He looks like an Edward I recognise, an Edward I want to get to know again.

An Edward who will maybe let me.

And he must hear me, because he turns to the side, eyes finding mine as his fingers push through the front of his hair.

"You look nice," he comments, assessing me from head to toe, clearing his throat as his hands find purchase in the pockets of his jeans.

I take a deep breath, pulling at the ends of my sweater sleeves. "Thank you."

My voice feels unused, unpacked, unwanted. He nods and scratches his jaw.

"You ready to go?" he wonders, staring at me again in that way that makes me feel brand new.

His absorption is Christmas, first dates and child-like birthdays all rolled into one.

I take a step forward, nodding as he passes me my purse from the end of the sofa, his touch lingering, linking us together, an apology for earlier.

He's taking his own time, using his own methods, something I'm going to have to accept. And yet his attention to me this morning is years too late, heartbeat too quick and intensely too good.

I want to tell his fingers I missed them, want to ask him what took them so long. But I don't, even though the silence that adheres to my lips stings.

"Yeah, I'm ready," I say, looking away from our hands—I don't need to see when I can _feel_.

His fingers squeeze mine so tight, but just for a few seconds, a memory jolting to the surface as he lets go.

**~CitP~**

The room is so quiet, cold, the skin on my arms prickling as we sit and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Fingers tangle with mine; they fit so easy, so right, like connecting pieces of a puzzle. They try to reassure, try to tether like hastily knotted lengths of string, but the expressions staring back at us break through the wall we thought we'd built so tall, so strong.

Our love is not as impenetrable as we thought.

"You got married," his father repeats again, granite surrounded by icy blue, frostbite that covers the skin in a stinging layer of disapproval.

I can feel the tension in the room rising, dusky water that threatens to pull us both under, steal our breath, our words, close our lids.

I stay quiet, simply clutching the hand of the boy I love, answers frozen on the tip of my tongue like icebergs that have the potential to block, choke and flounder.

I'm not even sure it's a question; this isn't the first time he's said these words to us since finding out.

I'd been planning the words in my head the whole drive over, knowing our reception would cause chills and ignite fires.

I want to be someone Edward can rely on, and was determined not let my insecurities and trepidation close me off like the pages of a completed book.

We'd been hiding this for too long; finally ready to step out of the shadows into the light.

But my feet seem to still be stuck in darkness, in sticky tar that holds my shoes in place, in guilt-sickening cowardice and fear of nonacceptance.

Edward sighs beside me, his grip on my hand bordering on painful. It's weirdly comforting and I hold on so tight. "Yes," he says, his voice trying to remain strong in the face of adversity.

But underneath that stubble, underneath that sharp and defined jawline, he is just a boy; a boy who made me a promise, one who brought the happiest of smiles to my face while wiping the ones off his parents' faces as he, in turn, broke the promise he made them.

He put his love for me first, above and beyond the wants of the two people who brought him into this world, high in the clouds.

He spun me in circles and kissed me stupid.

And I gave him my heart and whispered for him to keep it safe.

White gold feels heavy on my hand as Esme continues to stare at the ring that glistens back in the light; a pinch, a punch, a _what did you do?_

Her expression leaves no space for doubt in my mind about how she really feels. I've taken her little boy, who is no longer so little, from her grasp.

"Are you stupid?" Carlisle blurts, face stern, his hands white-clenched fists that sit on his knees; ruling crowns atop a throne.

I've never seen him like this; never seen him anything other than cool, calm and collected: a clean pressed suit and swept back hair.

My lids squeeze shut, a feeble attempt at trying to disappear, a game of hide-and-seek made of nightmares.

And here it comes.

Here it comes.

Volcano eruptions and fireworks that explode in the night sky: bang after bang after bang. But there is no excitement, no happiness; here shining eyes are made from bitter tears and loud voices pound against the little drums hidden inside our ears.

"Excuse me?" Edward pushes out, his anger a blinding beacon topped with flames, smoke filling the sky in warning. "No, I'm not _stupid_."

Carlisle's nostrils flare, filling his senses with breath tinged an incensed red. "You're a child!" he shouts. "And this," he indicates between the two of us with a finger that makes me feel so small; so wrong, "makes you stupid!" His eyes find mine and I want to look away. "Both of you."

I take a deep breath, thumb stroking skin beneath a finger ready to pull the trigger. But I'm too late, and that shot has already been fired—already has an intended target.

"Fuck you!" Edward roars, restraints let loose, green gloried gaze set straight on his father.

A shocked, heavy silence presses down on the top of my head, caging me in a box made of glass. Cracks immediately start to appear and I know it's only a matter of time before the whole thing shatters.

Startled expressions give way to loud breaths that quickly turn into rage. "Get out of my house!"

Carlisle's voice is cold, deadly: steel pointed traps and sickly poison. The sound makes me jump, the tenor of his words reverberating between my ribs, wrapping themselves around my bones like ivy.

Shivers attack my spine and I want to curl into warm chests and wish it all away.

All of this is so wrong.

Love isn't supposed to be this ugly, hateful thing. We aren't naive, we knew they'd be disappointed, but this is something we didn't anticipate.

Esme's hand grips the sleeve of his shirt, whispering for him to calm down, but it's no use; he's not hearing anything but the turbulent thoughts in his own head right now.

Fingers that tried to reassure, disappear as Edward gets to his feet, my hands squeezing together instead, palm to palm, a prayer that gets pressed between my knees.

"I thought you'd at least listen," he says, staring back at his parents, the stoic mask on his face slipping just a little.

He holds his hand out to me and I don't hesitate in taking it, his eyes briefly closing at my touch.

I want to say so much, but they need to calm down, have time to think it over, realise that this is something we both wanted; something we were both ready for.

They don't try to stop us as Edward leads me from the room. There are no departing threats. No assurances filled with anger or regret fired at our backs. Nothing but the sound of our shoes hitting the hardwood floor.

We both get into the car without a word, the engine roaring to life before I've even had time to put on my seat belt.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires, and we're only a short way up the driveway when Edward pulls over.

We're hidden beneath a canopy of trees, his hands tight around the steering wheel as his head droops forward.

"Hey," I say, immediately pulling myself from my seat as I climb over to him.

I hate seeing him so defeated like this. We're supposed to be happy... Carefree and young.

My hand rests on his shoulder until he leans back, allowing me to settle myself on his lap, legs either side of his. I wrap my arms tight around his shoulders as he buries his face in my neck, his hands instantly going beneath the back of my shirt.

"We don't need their blessing," he says, his mouth sucking softly at my skin before becoming more aggressive, kisses demanding at my lips.

He'll change his mind, I know he will, but it's okay. I don't push him away, don't tell him to slow down, I simply kiss him back with everything I have, until breathing requires we pull apart.

I allow him to take his comfort, knowing that one day, I'm going to need his, too.

**~CitP~**

"Is here all right?" Edward asks upon cutting the engine.

I look out the window at the white-fronted diner and nod, stepping out onto the pavement moments later.

He looks at me from over the roof of the car before closing his own door, a question buried somewhere in the furrow of his brows.

We walk to the entrance in silence, just like the car ride over. I'm a few steps behind, wanting to watch him from a slight distance—pick up on his body language and prepare myself for the day ahead.

He stands tall, hands in his pockets, hair colour more defined in the natural light. I tuck my own brown strands behind my ears as I walk, trying to remember the last time we did something like this; something that didn't involve work or his parents.

Or in some cases, even my own mom and dad.

And I can't.

He holds the door open for me, a small act that brings my eyes to his face in gratitude, my arm brushing against the sleeve of his t-shirt as I pass.

"Thank you," I say, just loud enough for him to hear before I turn away to step inside.

The smell of coffee and fried bacon immediately hits me upon entry, feet shuffling backwards a touch as a server walks past. Her hands are full with empty plates streaked with ketchup and syrup, a decorated display in blood red and angelic gold.

The diner is busy, the majority of tables full, the voices loud compared to the quiet of the car ride, sound proof bubble popped with a pinch of teeth.

The walls are lined in panels of wood, the seating a midnight blue, dark like sapphires that, in this case, are worn, scuffed and even torn in some places.

I suddenly feel Edward behind me, mouth close to my ear, breath warm. "Do you want to sit at the counter or get a booth?" he asks, the tips of his hair brushing against my skin as he lingers.

I resist the urge to turn and face him, conscious of the room full of people I don't know—resist the urge to bring his lips closer to my skin, feel them whisper across my cheeks, soft like sun-smoked feathers.

Eyes wandering around the room, noting the different couples as they smile and share stories, reminding me of us from years before, I tell him, 'booth' and follow behind as he directs us to one near the window.

It isn't necessarily private, the best place to talk, but at this point, I'm just glad we're here at all, together and trying to fix these broken pieces of ourselves.

His eyes slide to mine as he takes a seat; green, bright and distracting in the afternoon sun, all reflective bottle-top glass buried in the sand.

"Is this okay?" he asks, pushing a menu across the table until it bumps my fingers lightly.

I nod, pulling it closer until I can see the words printed beneath plastic. "It's fine," I answer, feeling nervous and excited, content and familiar.

Within seconds, a server is upon us, ready to take our order, empty coffee pot set down on the table with a light scratch of glass.

I look up, her face young and sweet: innocent pretty with pink bubblegum lips.

She isn't looking at me though... _No_. Her attention is focused solely on Edward; on the hand that moves through his hair, on the tongue that sweeps against his bottom lip, his eyes down as he studies the menu in front of him.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I watch him carefully, waiting for his gaze to lift, for him to notice we're not alone.

He eventually looks up, his focus shifting from me, to the girl beside us, and back again, movement slow and confused.

"Do you not know what you want?" he questions, brows furrowing above his eyes.

_Yes, but do you?_

The girl turns to look at me, almost as if she's noticing me for the first time, a mirage that has appeared in the sun soaked desert. Her eyes dip to the ring on my finger and the smile that was curving her mouth dims just a little, pen poised above the small notepad that is cradled in the palm of her hand.

"I'll take a black coffee and the waffles, please," I say, ready for her to leave.

She's making this uncomfortable... or maybe I'm doing that myself with my own insecurities.

She scribbles my order down, turning back to Edward with a mega-watt smile that squeezes at my heart.

He sucks in his cheeks a little as he continues to look back at me, his own food order spilling from his lips a few moments later, mouth not as distracting as the look in his eyes.

"I'll have the pancakes with a side of bacon. Thanks," he tells her without a glance.

She takes her time writing this down before telling us our food will be out shortly.

"You didn't want pancakes?" he asks once she's out of earshot—I almost always get pancakes.

I shake my head no. "I wanted a change," I respond, remembering Jasper's words to me that day in the store.

I look out the window, at the cars that pass on the street and the screaming child in its stroller that has dropped its stuffed bear on the ground. The mother hasn't noticed as she continues to talk to the woman beside her, my fingers twitching beneath the table as I resist the urge to knock on the glass and get her attention. It's distressing to watch the little girl cry and cry, her small hands reaching out from the sides of her stroller, trying to reach something she's too small to touch.

Eventually the mother crouches in front of her little darling, wiping tear stained cheeks and handing back cuddly warmth. I realise my attempts at garnering her attention would have been useless, because love is louder, a scream that shatters glass, the cut of the night sky, the lightening bolt that glows an electric golden-yellow, the thunder that follows with its deep tenor rumble.

Just loud, loud, loud.

Love draws me back to the man I came here with, and as my gaze rests on his face, I've caught him unaware.

His eyes scan me from the waist up, stripping me bare with just one look; no hands or fumbling fingers, just honest intensity that tugs and tugs and tugs.

I don't want to move or breathe, I just want to watch him watch me, but the moment is ripped away by a pair of pretty shoes and a new spritz of perfume.

My food is set down in front of me and the girl smiles, cheeks turning blossom pink as she focuses back on Edward, wonder bright in her eyes like the stars.

She's young, and I know the feeling all too well, jealousy and ire bubbling under my skin like dark, burning sugar.

It's bitter and sweet, heartache and laughter clutching at one another with piercing claws that come away ruby red.

I should be used to this by now, used to the wanting gazes from strangers—it never gets easier though. Whispers and spotlight attention follow him around, a constant shadow that blazes, and when I'm trying to balance, trying to regain my footing with something that used to be so stable, it's hard not to be affected.

I don't want us to fall again.

I turn back to him, catching his eyes just as they flit to her face. They linger and this time it's my turn to look away from _him_.

From the both of them.

She sets his cup down in front of him, her nails a baby blue against the white porcelain as she steadies it by the handle.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, straightening back up again, her voice matching her face, all sweet innocence that tempts.

I wait for Edward to speak, but nothing follows, content to let the chatter of those around us dominate in sound.

He must indicate somehow though, as after a few more painful seconds where my heart beats in my ears, she tells us an _okay_ and leaves us alone, her voice just as cheerful when she pauses a few tables down.

I reach for a spoon, the silence tense, neither one of us attempting to break it as I empty a packet of sugar into my coffee and stir, dissolve, wash the words away in muddy water. It's so easy to pretend this isn't our fault... _mine_; easy to place the blame on a character who doesn't exist outside of this diner, a storybook hastily glued together with scraps of paper and a wrinkled lunch receipt stained with coffee.

His hands are in his hair, his frustration evident as his fingers pull harshly at the roots. "What's wrong?" he asks, looking at me with those green eyes that could haunt the dead.

I bite the inside of my cheek, head shaking, speech a mystery I have yet to solve.

I feel ridiculous, a child, but my thoughts don't stop. They spin in pretty dresses, and stumble in shoes too big, refusing to be ignored.

He reaches for his coffee, lips pursed against the edge of his cup as he speaks, gaze directed out of the window. "You're lying." He states this so simply, seeing through my pretences.

And he's right—I am.

Taking a deep breath, I give voice to exactly what I'm feeling. "Sometimes I feel I'm not good enough for you," I say quietly, insecurities laid bare with a whisper. They settle between us, hover like mist, a veil that shrouds my face and renders my mouth useless.

His eyes are dark, open, and my pulse races, throat feeling tight as the impact of my words settle inside my stomach.

They twist like keys in rusty locks, the taste bitter, salt and blood.

I remember his admission on a night that ended with a burning kiss; that ended with a smile on my face that wasn't altogether full.

I remember my question: _What about Kate? Are you not attracted to her?_

And his even more so, a red and angry mark that brands the skin over my heart: _I've thought about it... how easy it would be._

His voice pushes against my thoughts, fists through glass and howling screams. "Why would you think that?" he asks.

My response is instant, the memory still fresh, dew sticking to the tips of green blades in the early morning light. "Why do you think?"

He sighs, his words a low and harsh exhale. "Jesus fucking Christ."

It's pain and grit and _enough_.

"She was pretty," I say, referring to the waitress, but meaning someone else. I'm goading him, looking up through lashes that want to close, that want to block out painful reminders of past occurrences.

His hands move to the back of his neck before dropping down to the table, his sigh one of aggravation.

I should stop this, I know I should, but I don't look away, and neither does he, his expression unyielding.

It is bright intensity; it's like looking into the sun. And as I try not to blink against its brightness, there is fight here, which is so much better than indifference, even if they both still hurt.

"I didn't notice," he replies smoothly.

And now it's his turn to lie. "No?"

He doesn't even blink, surety in the form of still lashes. "No," he answers.

It's not about this girl, not really. It's about another girl who has hair and eyes the same colour as mine. Another girl he's admitted to finding attractive; another girl who _likes_ that he does.

It's about the girl who has brought a smile to his face and laughter to his lips when I couldn't.

He chews slowly, his jaw still tense. Swallowing, he wonders, "Have I really screwed you up that much, Bella?" My fork pauses midway to my mouth, surprise zipping through my veins like the first caffeine hit of the day. He hasn't finished though. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do here. Am I not allowed to look at another woman if they ask me a question?" He rubs his palm down the side of his face.

"Of course you are," I say, dropping my fork to my plate, appetite vanishing with just four words.

His voice is low against the other voices around us. "Then why are we even discussing this?" he asks me.

"Because I can't stop thinking about another woman's hands on your face," I tell him, my answer quick and sharp, enticed out of its shell with a sugarcoated lie.

He's abruptly quiet, and I feel abruptly angry and stupid. He licks his lips, attention diverted elsewhere. "It was nothing."

"You're giving me excuses," I say, wanting to reach across the table and put my hand atop his, dig my nails into the gaps between his knuckles. "Don't, Edward... please."

I watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat; watch the muscles in his jaw tick, a restless electricity emanating from his skin. He scratches his arm, eyes flicking to mine, his agitation, his _unease_, brewing like rapidly filling storm clouds.

"She's not important," he repeats, and I feel something plummet inside of me, because he's dismissing how I'm feeling.

Knee bouncing under the table, a rock in my stomach, I say, "But it's important to me."

He's back to unblinking, his lips parting. "Well, it shouldn't be," he responds. "Because she's just a girl."

A girl is never _just a girl_ to a boy.

His words hang in the air, a dream-catcher that seizes the light, trapping his unshared thoughts inside its numerous feathers.

I pick apart the waffle on my plate, not eating, watching him do the same with his pancakes until my coffee turns cold.

He pays the bill and the car ride home is just as quiet as the one there.

He switches the TV on when we arrive back, sitting beside me on the sofa instead of the chair opposite, but at a distance, a reminder he's not quite ready for anything more at that moment.

His eyes stay trained ahead, mine on him until my lids fall shut, tired of waiting for something I'm not sure is even coming.

XXX

When I wake this time, the room is dark. The warmth, however, is still here, even if it is a little further away.

I can't remember moving, stretching out my legs, tucking feet under a jean clad thigh; can't remember the TV getting switched off in favour of complete silence. I do remember what this feels like though, falling asleep with him near, touching him somehow, even in the smallest of ways.

Light-filled remembrance fills my chest, floating like a feather, making me smile in darkness that hides the small up-curl of my lips, a secret keeper that stays on standby as the hours pass.

"Did I wake you?"

I jump, not expecting the sound of his voice even though I knew he was there. I could _feel_ him. I wiggle my toes just once before pulling my legs back, drawing them to my chest as I sit up straighter, eyes gradually adjusting to the muted light of the room.

"I don't know," I answer, clearing my throat, trying to think. "I don't think so. I mean, I didn't hear anything."

I hear his fingers scratch over his stubble, my skin prickling in response. "Okay."

Silence settles over us again and it feels like I've slept for days and not hours, my limbs all comfortably rested.

I'm not sure what the time is, but know it's late enough for heads to find pillows and lashes to flutter shut. I rest my chin on my folded arms and my heartbeat picks up when Edward shifts to the edge of the sofa.

I don't want him to go, my insides crying out for him to stay exactly where he is; for him to get closer and closer and closer.

My eyes are wide in the dark, body still, the room filled with tension-crackling silence, like little fireflies at late night summer festivals.

His voice comes again, these words even more surprising than the first.

"When I first met you... I had no idea how important you would become to me."

My mouth snaps shut, breaths stolen, locked up tight. His head turns to face me, his eyes so dark, dark, dark in the room, like liquid onyx, captivatingly dangerous.

"Or maybe I did," he continues, the sounds of his breathing my anchor. "It scared me how fast I wanted to get to know you, become your friend."

I feel like little choking sobs are going to escape my mouth at any second, his words the best kind of gift, painful and raw while still being that perfect one for me.

"Sometimes I want to be that young again," he tells me, keeping me trapped.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I ask, "Why?"

"Because it means it's okay not to care."

He's not meaning this to hurt me... the look in his eyes that accompanies his words aren't hate or hard, indifferent or empty. He's soft brushstrokes, painting my skin in honest white, letting me see a little more of his hurt, too.

"You asked me once if I was happy..." he says, words trailing off like a dying breeze as he waits for me to remember.

I think back, scramble through the thoughts in my head, try to determine the ones that have passed through my lips and the ones that haven't, my determination blink-quick.

I remember the startling picture of a new family behind panes of glass, the rain that stuck to my face, the moon highlighting cheekbones I used to kiss over and over.

His answer: _No_.

A distant memory echoes, hazy around a painted tongue, slowly forming like the lazy tick of a clock as the seconds pass.

"I remember," I say eventually, meeting his eyes.

He pulls in a breath, deep and deep, the bottomless curvature of a wishing well. "Are you happy, Bella?" he wonders. "And I don't mean just with _us_. Take the _us _out of the equation."

My head shakes in refusal, a _no, no, no_. "That's impossible," I tell him.

It's like informing a plant it can't have water; like veins without blood, a heart without its reason to carry on ticking.

He frowns, lips pursing ever so slightly with the movement. "It's not," he persists, almost seeming desperate, as if he's trying to force himself to believe the words, too.

"It is," I push, gales that force you to take a step back. "I feel like I don't know who I am without you."

It's the truth, and I feel weak, a bird with one wing broken, feathers drooping a pathetic shade of beige. But I don't budge. I'm trying to be honest, test the water with a timid dip of toes.

He's angry, storm clouds brewing behind his eyes. "Don't say that," he warns, the look in his eye a stark contrast to his words, electric yellow against still-sky blue.

He's seeing red, truths that fly and hover like the persistent honey bee craving nectar.

"Why?" I ask, unable to stop myself despite the warning signs ahead.

His hands scrub the sides of his face. "Because I can't handle that kind of guilt, Bella," he groans. "That kind of responsibility is fucking terrifying, and that's a problem."

_I'm a problem?_

"Do you never feel the same way?" I ask.

And I can tell this is the question he didn't want me to get to; didn't want me to ask.

But he doesn't avoid, doesn't run.

His expression forces the air from my lungs, replacing it with a red-tinged light.

"Sometimes I do," he tells me, his voice low, his tone honest. "Sometimes I feel I'll go crazy if I don't speak to you... or have you near me."

My heart pounds crazily, his truths stripping me bare; a once colourful painting washed the palest shade of beige. I feel the sudden need to move, to run, but his eyes keep me in place, refusing to let me flee.

I don't understand it—don't understand myself. This is what I've been wanting to hear, to pull from his head... his _heart_. All day.

I want to become the pages of his journal and learn his secrets... be that someone he shares them with.

And yet it's also something I'm unexpectedly afraid of, like crossing bridges I've admired from afar for so long, only to realise I'm so high up.

I think he knows, too, but he's not shutting himself off from me this time.

He leans forward, a small shift that results in his knee brushing against mine, setting me on fire, paper to flame, bleeding words that melt onto our skin.

And I'm sure that's it, that he'll pull away, read the fear in my eyes and ignore the wanting of my racing pulse.

But he doesn't.

His palm finds my cheek, his touch soft, a distant memory that prickles the skin, his tongue speaking words that make my eyes burn and my lips tremble.

"The urge to reach out and touch you is so strong sometimes... it's almost as if my limbs aren't my own," he murmurs, his voice a grit-like need that is impossible to ignore, sand that scratches along the back of my throat.

My hands squeeze into fists on my lap as his fingers slide past my temple into my hair, gripping, but not hurting. "You dominate my thoughts, so much so, I can't concentrate on anything else." He takes a deep breath, chest expanding. "It terrifies me, Bella," he admits, ensnaring me in honest green.

I swallow thickly, trying to rein, trying to calm. "You think it isn't the same for me?" I ask looking back at him, sitting on my hands to stop them from touching things that I'm not sure are fully mine.

My confidence is hiding amongst shadows, in a cold room where hearts race.

His lips part, fingers loosening. "I don't know," he replies, eyes searching my face, brows furrowed. "I don't know."

My throat tightens, and my vision blurs, and I wish I knew what he was looking for, because I'd give it to him so fast, heartbeat quick and pure.

"Then that's a problem," I whisper, feeling the ache inside my chest, a hollow longing desperate to be filled. "Because _I do_. I feel all those things. So much."

He carries on looking, tracing pathways that hold hidden letters only visible to him. His fingers move to my face, and his touch is sure, breaking me apart, piece by puzzle piece. And the whole time I'm screaming inside, begging him to _see _me, hoping he remembers the way, the words, the way I held him at night; the way I kissed him hello and good morning with smiling lips and touches that adored.

"Is that it?" I ask, the silence in between truths suffocating, like hands over mouths and fingers that shush.

He pauses here, and the expression on his face immediately makes me want to take the words back.

"No," he answers slowly.

"What else is there?" I question, apprehension a river of ice in my veins.

He takes a deep breath. "Sometimes I think I resent you for it... for making me feel that way."

A ringing shoots through my ears, deafened by the fire of a gun.

"But I'd rather be with you than not," he continues, assures, softens. "Even if that makes me selfish, makes us stupid... makes us the worst versions of ourselves sometimes."

My stomach lurches, his admission hard to hear. "It makes us the best, too," I remind him.

He swallows thickly, pulling away slowly. "I know."

The silence that follows, kisses my cheeks rather than bites at my skin, and I'm suddenly so tired again.

His gaze drifts to the door and I don't want him to go where I can't follow: I want to sleep beside him just like last night.

Gathering all my courage, I get to my feet and hold it to my chest in my very own jar of hope.

He watches me stand, my balance shaky under his attention as I hold my hand out to him, a wordless plea, fear of his refusal a block of ice that keeps my feet weighted to the ground.

This is what we do. He tells me a secret and I keep it, show him my own without words.

He stares at me for the longest moment, arms on his knees, head tilted down ever so slightly, eyes solely on me.

My hand shakes, offer wavering like the first fall of leaves in autumn as they tremble before sailing through the air. And for those few fearful seconds, I'm scared he's going to leave me standing here all alone.

He wets his lips and my heart is in my throat as he stands, as he pauses in front of me, as he takes my hand and brushes his parted lips over the top of my head.

He's not kissing, but it doesn't matter.

He's simply touching, remembering... burning me alive.

There are five perfect seconds in the dark before he leads me from the room, hand clutched tightly in his, my fingers refusing to let go.

He hesitates on the stairs, shoulders rising with his breath before pulling us in the direction of his old room. I feel my pulse quicken, my skin warm all over, remembering past nights spent curled up in his arms.

The door opens, the room just as dark as the rest of the house. My nerves take over, singing inside my veins, all fear and heart and love.

I remember a prom dress on the carpet and tears inside the closet, first _I love yous _and ink scrawled memories.

I look at his cotton-covered back, heart a runaway train, and wonder what he sees.

His hand leaves mine, fingers going to the fly of his jeans as he begins to take them off to sleep, head down, focused on his metal-loud movements. I don't know where to look, my own hands shaking, nervous as I copy him, the air cold on my bare legs.

I quickly strip off my sweater, leaving me in just my tank and underwear, bed covers pulled back as I crawl onto the mattress. He's changed his t-shirt, short sleeves instead of long, his arms distracting as he climbs in beside me.

I'm awkward, all sleepy desire, the heat from his body driving me crazy inside, embers lit a glow-bright orange. I want to turn, just like last night, close my eyes against his chest with his fingers buried in my hair.

I can hear the tick of the clock and the sound of our too loud breaths and unable to take it, _stand_ it, my body turns, seeking the person that knows it best.

Slowly, his head turns on the pillow, his gaze my sizzling flare in an inky sky and the reason for the shiver than runs along my skin, all moon lit rivers that consume.

His movements are careful as he moves to lean over me, my back flat to the mattress, his arms either side of mine, caging me in.

I watch as his eyes glance between mine and my mouth, his lips parting as he brings his face closer. And I think I'll stop breathing, _combust_, the physical ache of his proximity wanting to tear itself from my chest, a bird as it flees from the bars of its too small cage.

Lips drag down my temple, my thighs squeezing together beneath the covers as one of his hands finds my hip.

He does this over and over, my fingers digging into sheets, legs bending, knees higher, his touch gentle but firm.

His lips change course, flutter across my cheeks, feather-light kisses that rival those of sweeping butterfly wings.

I swallow hard, eyes pressing shut. "I'm sorry," I whisper, unable to keep quiet.

I expel my regrets out like smoke, watch them curl behind my eyes.

His stubble scratches my skin as he pays attention to my neck, my throat, a bittersweet punishment I'd take over and over.

"For what?" he asks quietly, chilling my skin, all glittering frost as his teeth form over my collarbone.

_Everything._

I've played my part, aced my scenes with flying colours, confetti raining down from the sky: blue and yellow and red and black; tears and smiles and heart and despair.

He doesn't ask me to elaborate, give voice to the flashing side-reel behind closed lids, his soft kiss to my chin a momentary pass.

"Open your eyes," he appeals.

His voice is a whisper, a want, a white hot plea. His breath warms my cheek and I burn along with him, scattering like flaming ash.

I do as he says, ready to fall and soar, feel the wind in my hair and the flutter against my lashes, the hammering in my chest going up another notch as I meet his gaze, his lids lazy, half closed.

All mine.

My hands are shaking, my heart crazy, no longer a graveyard, but a place where passion grows, carmine streaked paper templates in the shape of opened mouths ready to take and taste: swallow whole.

His face is the boy I remember, the man I still love, the look in his eyes splintering me in so many ways.

He is smiling lips in the rain, wedding bands on fingers and whispered assurances against muscle that beats.

It's suddenly hard to breathe.

My breaths come too fast, thundering like trembles that shake the earth, shaking the trees and startling what resides in half shadow, wings flapping, beating quick, fast, quick.

And _calm_ and _slow down_ are lost, carried away with a sigh in the dark, blindfolded and spun in circles before being thrown up, up, up.

I reach out to touch his face, outline his lips with the tips of my fingers, his nostrils flaring as he tries to steady his own breath. But it's too late, and not enough, this little piece of comfort too blinding, silver-white like the stars.

It's my way of telling him I'm his, that I want his mouth, his kisses, his tongue and heart and even the pain, too. Because when he looks at me like this, these fleeting moments, they eclipse the tears that dry all on their own.

My fingers move, trace the fuzz of his brows, his exhale hitting my pulse point just before I feel his lips at my wrist.

This time I'm the one trying to steady, a breathy whine leaving my mouth as he sucks the skin softly.

He likes this noise, wrapping the sound up in safe hands, his body shifting higher, pressing lightly against mine.

I can feel my pulse racing, a wish upon a star, his face hovering so close above mine. He bends his head, closer and closer, my lips parting, breath stuck in my throat.

I feel shaky, like I want to cry, or talk, my hands sliding to the backs of his arms as his palm cradles my face.

I'm expecting his mouth, but am met with something else instead. His tongue brushes the outside of my lips and my stomach dips, shock and want overwhelming, a veil of purple satin sheen.

_Inhale, exhale, tremble, over and over. _

He does it again, moving to my bottom lip, the silence ringing in my ears, the moment making my muscles tense and squeeze.

Fingers tease beneath the hem of my tank and my heart skips a beat, like pebbles skimming over the surface of water, a rippling effect that travels over my skin.

My breath seems so loud, fingers nervous with want and need as they weave themselves into his hair, holding him close, close, closer. His nose brushes against the side of my face, and my cheeks burn, my blood boiling hot, heart pumped and so alive, beating just for him, ready for more.

He doesn't stop, his lips finally back, above mine, glistening temptation as he wets both.

My hands slide to his shoulders and I watch lashes close in the dark before my own fall shut, fully distracted.

I can feel this kiss all through my body, a low hum that hovers just above my skin, silencing the thoughts in my head with a flip of a switch; with a pair of lips that make me want to cry.

His mouth is gentle at first, teasing, light kisses that come and go, anticipation a gift of dark pink softness. I wrap my arms tight around his neck and lift my head, angle my mouth just right, lips pressing harder.

He responds, pushing me back to the pillows, a low moan sounding from the base of my throat.

He shifts, body weight full, the best kind of breathless as he rocks his hips, seeking comfort and so much more. The bed springs whine, and my legs tighten, squeeze around the top of his thighs, trying to keep him right there.

My heartbeat is somewhere else tonight, below hips and between parted thighs, insistent like his tongue as it pushes into my mouth.

He takes and tastes; his teeth tug, I want him to do it harder.

I pull him closer, his groan low and gritty in my ear as he slides his hand to the curve of my ass, fingers digging into my flesh.

I'm lost, hips circling up and up. He's so hard between my legs, his face pressed into my neck, leaving purple stained kisses, his tongue warm and wet.

I grip his sides tightly, trying to urge him forward—urge for things I know we're not ready for. I feel so hot, so uncomfortably good, his skin against my lips addictive.

He leans back, looking at my face, his torso warm against mine, his hips slowing and slowing, when all I can think is _faster, faster._

I'm breathless as his hands cup my face lightly, brushing the hair from my skin, the look in his eyes a flicker in the dark, in my heart, in the sound that keens inside my throat, an almost sob for so many things.

He touches me softly, his kisses lazy, his voice my favourite confession. "I'm sorry, too," he whispers.

I nod, eyes burning, arms tight around his neck, shuddering as I hold on.

And not just to him, but to this marriage, to his words and the expression on his face as he looks at me.

To this feeling right now.

* * *

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**See you all in a couple of weeks!**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	17. Yellow

**Hey everyone! I hope you're all having a good weekend so far.**

**Thank you so, so much to Susan and Jen for holding my hand through this chapter. **

**They are the best and I don't tell them this enough.**

** And huge thank you to Judy for pre-reading and being so lovely.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

There is a blissful moment just before we fall asleep where our mind is completely silent. Our thoughts fall away like the cinnamon shaded leaves in autumn; disappear like a dying wish that gets pushed through rapidly slowing lips.

Other times we're left with a heavy ring of smoke that eventually fades to the slightest wisps of consciousness, our lips curling up into the faintest of smiles before sleep pulls us under.

And sometimes we don't remember it at all, can't recall it happening, think and think, our frustration a cloying presence that adheres to our lips like glue as we question its authenticity.

Right now I long for that blissful moment; long for that something to pull the worries from my head. I want to tie my doubts together tightly, form knotted lengths of string, cast them out of the window and into the breeze without a return address.

I look down at the man beside me, at his peaceful form, his lips pressed together in his sleep: tempting and distracting as he breathes softly. I think back to an hour before and the message left on the answering machine, the one that let me know his parents are coming back tomorrow, a day earlier than planned.

I wish I hadn't ventured into the office, hadn't decided to check in with my dad before his shift at work, hadn't chosen to use the phone downstairs rather than my cell in the bedroom, so conscious not to wake Edward.

Denial infinitely tastes better.

I'd forgotten this wasn't our house, that we'd have to go back to the one I could no longer stand to live in, the one I'd left weeks previously and still hadn't been back to.

It's inevitably brought on a flurry of worries that have been buried beneath wandering fingers and breath-stealing kisses; beneath painful confessions and gaze-wielding fragments of silence.

I'm scared of backward steps that lead to bad decisions; scared of what they represent and who we are right now.

This bubble we've created is about to be popped with piercing stares and questions, questions, questions.

And I don't want to be here for any of them.

I lean across and press secret kisses to Edward's cheek, the kind you only give when you know the other person is sound asleep, heart-kept desires spurred on by the even rise and fall of a chest.

His lashes remain closed as I slip from the bed, careful not to wake him as my fingers trail across the still warm sheets.

I reach down for the sweater I'd discarded last night and pull it over my head, fingers swiftly untangling the hair from beneath the wool as I leave it to rest over one shoulder.

I need air, something other than four walls and the nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach that doesn't seem to want to leave.

My feet are as soundless as I can make them as I tread across the room to the double doors that lead outside, gaze drifting back to Edward just once before I turn the lock.

There is an unmistakeable chill in the air today, a slight breeze that caresses my skin with a pinch of teeth, biting along my bare legs as I step over the lip of the doorway onto the wooden steps that run down to the gravel.

I wrap my arms tighter around my middle, shivering just slightly as I bury my chin and hide my lips beneath the front of my sweater.

The clouds dominate the sky this morning, thick in cover and fluffy around the edges, like an old blanket that has retained its softness. I look up, up, up, blinking, and it makes no sense to me, this weightless appearance, because I swear I can feel their heaviness press down upon me, like hard-edged words and letters with red notices stamped across the front.

Some are a smoky pearl, others a stony promise, the overall picture one of dull tones that carry so much threat. I look away, knowing it's only a matter of time until the heavens open, and focus on the branches that sway.

The leaves that adhere to their sides rustle back and forth, making the kind of music that is more comforting than not, giving life to an otherwise still view.

It's like being stuck inside a motion picture with only part of the screen in working order. I'm left waiting for my cue, wondering why it hasn't arrived yet, questioning if it ever will.

Bright yellow daffodils that come back year after year catch my eye, standing out amongst all the grey, an offer of sunshine without the warmth, a simple desire that springs up from the ground instead of filling the sky.

It reminds me of springtimes spent in this very garden, with the very man who is asleep in the room behind me.

The smiles are different and the features are younger, but my feelings are exactly the same.

_His kisses_ are exactly the same.

**~CitP~**

The weather is perfect today, a rarity that has to be taken advantage of, cradled within greedy palms that cherish. The air smells of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass, and I'm wearing my new sky blue shorts that I know are going to be covered in grass stains when I finally get up—when Edward finally goes back to mowing the lawn instead of kissing me. Not that I want him to. I hope his parents stay gone for the rest of the day so we can stay here for another few hours, simply kissing and touching and telling the other we should go while not making any attempt to move.

My eyes are closed, and I can feel the warmth of the sun from behind my lids, hear the buzz of insects that hover.

I can also feel the wet of Edward's tongue as he kisses the side of my neck.

One of those serene smiles grace my lips, the kind born from easy happiness, curling the outer corners of my mouth, my chest feeling light.

His hand finds my stomach, stroking my skin back and forth, from one hip to the other, testing the waters, checking to see if his hand being there is okay.

It's _more_ than okay.

I can feel his breath, hard and harsh against my cheek as he shifts against me a little. He's lying on his side, partly over me, one of his legs pinning down both of mine as he gets closer still.

His lips hit the corner of my mouth and I turn my head towards him a little, wanting and waiting for his kiss as I pucker slightly.

It doesn't come and my cheeks warm further with a different kind of pink.

My lashes blink open; the sun is shielded by Edward's smiling face above mine. His smirk only gets bigger when he sees my eyes are no longer closed but focused on him instead.

He brushes his nose against mine. "Did you want something, Bella?" he asks, his voice low and light.

I grip the front of his t-shirt, trying to pull him down. "Stop teasing me," I say, holding back my smile as I pretend to be annoyed.

"Hmm, or what?" he grins, all provoking perfection.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I think. "I don't know yet, but you'll be sorry," I reply, smiling wide when he throws his head back and laughs, the sound making my chest ache in the best of ways.

His eyes show his happiness, squinting ever so slightly as he asks me, "Is that right?" and I nod.

"Yes," I say, lifting my head from the grass to kiss his chin, "that's right."

He retaliates by kissing my face all over, his kisses quick, lips pressing everywhere but my mouth as I try to wiggle away from him, giggling. Somehow we end up swapping positions, his back now to the ground as I straddle his hips, his hands cupping my jaw as he still refuses to give me the kiss I want.

I rock my hips, unable to help it when I feel him hard beneath me, his mouth pausing in its teasing as he groans deep and kind of strangled.

His hands drop to my waist, fingers sliding down, trying to slip under the hem of my shirt as he lifts his hips. I immediately slap them away. "No touching," I tell him, biting my lip.

He looks up at me, jaw tight as he smirks. "Are you teasing me, Bella?" he asks.

From my periphery, I see his fingers grip the blades of grass he has yet to mow, and I know that I'm getting to him. "Are you going to kiss me, Edward?" I retort, circling my hips again.

He grabs my hips and rolls me under him, swapping our positions once more. His hand cradles the back of my head and I think I'm finally going to get my way when we both simultaneously turn our heads at the sound of a car coming down the driveway.

He curses and quickly helps me to my feet, brushing off my back and butt as the car pulls to a stop in front of the house.

His parents step out on opposite sides, his father's voice loud as he shouts over to his son, hand a makeshift visor over his eyes. "That lawn isn't going to mow itself, Edward," he reminds him.

I hear Edward sigh from beside me and match his frustrations inside. "Yeah... thanks," he mutters sarcastically, too low for Carlisle to actually hear.

Esme smoothes out her pants and indicates to my legs with a wave of her finger... or rather my shorts._ I_ _think_. "You should get home, Bella, before that stains," she says, her voice not unkind, just matter of fact.

I look down and sure enough, the grass has left green patches on my clothing.

I nod, feeling dejected as they both turn for the door, a sigh held in my chest as I go to swivel on my feet and head for my truck.

Edward is staring after his parents, annoyance painted all over his face, and I'm about to tell him 'bye' when he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him, his chest knocking into mine.

"What's—" my words are cut off by his mouth as he finally gives me my kiss, fingers tangling into my hair as I wrap my arms around his neck and rise up on tip-toes.

His lips are the good kind of hard that rivals the best kind of soft as he pulls back and touches his lips to mine gently, again and again.

"But your dad said—" I'm cut off once more.

"Screw what they said," he interrupts, tugging on the ends of my hair. "I want to kiss my girlfriend for a little longer," he smiles, pressing his lips back to mine.

His hands slip underneath my shirt and the lawn is forgotten for another five minutes.

**~CitP~**

My eyes stay glued to springtime yellow until a wisp of a breeze lifts my hair from the back of my neck, my gaze finally falling away like the first drift of snow come winter.

His parents' actions back then had been nothing. They simply wanted their son to learn responsibility. I can see that so clearly.

It's Edward that's different... his reactions that have changed. He questions nothing... _fights_ for nothing. It's hard to discern what he does for himself; hard to know what he truly wants.

He's become the master of avoidance and the boy who no longer smiles.

And what scares me the most is that I can't see a way for the two to ever fit together.

He would take my hand freely, kiss me and kiss me, make time for us, always. But it's almost as if I've become that invisible person that you remember but can no longer see, a figment of an imagination that flutters in and out of your conscience.

And as I continue to stand here, my body feels like lead, _grey_, as I wonder just how many more moments like this we'll have.

Our days aren't perfect, but they're better than before, no longer indifferent passages of time that leave me feeling so alone, like cold winter nights trapped out in the dark.

There are sparks, feelings, truths laid bare with raw edges, and I don't want to lose them: even the ones that cut.

Sometimes all I can think about is leaving... _together_. But it's that, right there, that puts an abrupt stop to my wandering dreams before they've had chance to fully bloom. I know more than anything that _here—_Port Angeles, Forks—is home for Edward. So while _my_ home may reside in the beat of his heart, I'm not sure it's the same for him. And that scares me, because I don't want to lose him. I never did. But then there's also that voice that asks the very question I don't want to answer: _What about what you want, Bella? Are you not important, too?_

It's that one that scares me most.

It's that one that has the potential to make me doubt.

It's that one that screams at me to run.

I turn away, bare legs frozen as I briefly rub them against one another before looking back up.

My cheeks warm and my chest feels lighter, a shiver of another kind kissing along my spine.

Edward is sitting up in bed, his back against the headboard as he simply watches me with sleep-mussed hair and alert eyes. I instantly wonder how long he's been awake, self-conscious as I tug the ends of my sweater further down my legs.

His eyes follow the movement as I step back inside and close the doors behind me, the soft click echoing in the otherwise silence of the room.

I think of his kisses and how his mouth felt on mine last night, the expression on his face as he gazed down at me—remember how his lips parted, just like they do now as he gets ready to speak.

My skin suddenly feels warm all over.

"I thought you'd left," he says, his voice still thick with sleep.

I take another step closer, eyeing my vacated place beside him for just a second. He licks his lips and I bite my bottom one in response. "And go where?" I question quietly.

He runs his palm along his jaw. "Work," he answers, clearing his throat. "I wasn't sure of the time."

My knee hits the mattress at the same time as both of my palms. I crawl onto the bed, close enough to touch without actually doing so, feeling his warmth through the cotton sheets. It's addictive, and maybe mine, and I can't stop staring at his lips or his fingers as he pushes his hair up from his forehead.

I take a deep breath and clasp my hands in my lap, unsure of what to do. His eyes flick to mine as he continues to tug on his hair, and I'm not sure he does either.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I say, "Your parents called earlier."

His gaze holds mine steady this time as his hands lower to the mattress. "You spoke to them?" he wonders, not blinking.

I shake my head. "No..." I respond slowly. "They left a message."

"What did it say?" he questions, brows furrowing.

I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment before telling him, "They're coming home tomorrow."

He doesn't say anything right away, just continues to stare, his breaths slightly louder, but still even. The tension is leaf-canopy thick; green and brown and overwhelming.

I want reassurance, anything other than this silence that coats my skin in a cloying layer of panic.

I'm too preoccupied to notice his hand move, but not enough that I don't feel his touch.

His finger sweeps across my bare knee, a thousand butterflies let loose inside my stomach, dipping and soaring and _flutter, flutter, flutter_.

My lips part as I watch him slide his whole palm over my skin, pausing just at the inside of my thigh, not high up like I want it, but frustratingly low to drive me crazy.

My pulse quickens as I touch my hand to his, hesitantly, almost as if I'll scare him away with my interference. He doesn't move and my exhale is one of slow and silent relief as I let it out from my chest.

Softly running the tips of my fingers over his knuckles, I let my lashes blink shut, telling myself over and over that this is enough.

But like all good things, they don't last, and the alarm on his phone sounds, a piercing ring that destroys the moment just as quickly as it began.

His jaw is tight when I open my eyes, his other hand reaching for his cell on the nightstand as he looks at the screen once before shutting it off.

"I'm going to go shower," I say, feeling the burn of his gaze on my face, my palm still covering his.

I look up and his fingers twitch against my thigh in response, the pressure of his touch strengthening slightly as I hold his attention.

His palm slides a little further and my own falls away, just wanting _him_, but then his hand is gone completely, and I'm left with nothing.

I swallow thickly and get to my feet, angry at myself as I feel my eyes burn with salt frustration, blinking quickly as I push the hair from my face.

I don't feel him behind me until he is, the back of his hand brushing the outside of my thigh as his mouth pauses at my ear. "Can I tell you a secret?" he murmurs, and I nod, leaning back into him, not trusting my own voice. His other hand steadies at my hip as he whispers, "I hate waking up to an empty bed." His breath is warm on the side of my neck, setting me alight in honey and bronze. "I didn't like that you weren't there this morning."

A shiver runs through my body, my eyes trained straight ahead as my vision blurs with tears. I love his admissions, so much, they pull and tug and feel great inside my chest, but they're not the ones I need to hear right now.

I feel his breaths pause against my cheek for just a moment, my own inhale held, unconsciously matching. A stalemate is formed, neither one of us moving until it gets to be too much. He leaves the room first and my heart pounds, his proximity still stuck to my skin long after he's gone.

I stand beneath the spray of the shower and close my eyes, letting the steam cloud my head instead of green eyes, teasing touches and this inexcusable fear that time is running out.

XXX

Work moves by in a blur. I remember greeting customers, can hear my own words inside my head, but I can't recall faces.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires of my car as I pull up the driveway, lost in grey before something silver catches my eye. I don't recognise the car, but the person behind it is unmistakable to me now.

My foot on the gas pulls back a bit, the car slowing as the other speeds past me like a bullet. My hands feel shaky, the beat of my heart accelerated as I immediately question what she was doing here.

The fact that Edward would be home doesn't even register with me until the engine has stopped running and I'm staring at his car next to mine. It's early... _early for him_,_ early for me_, and the thoughts that instantly plague my mind steal my breath and _pinch, pinch, pinch_.

There have been too many coincidences, too many excuses. I feel my heart shatter inside my chest and don't know how I'm going to put all the pieces back together again if I walk inside that house and see what I think I will.

That nagging fear from this morning rears its ugly head as my heels feel wobbly beneath me. I press the car door shut, too hope-dashed to cry, handle turned robotically as I step inside the house that feels too quiet, a sickening silence that turns my stomach and draws the slightest hint of blood into my mouth as I bite against my bottom lip.

My shoes fall away before my feet hit the stairs, my body on autopilot, knowing the way as everything feels stark white and tight against my throat.

Bile rises and my limbs feel heavy, adrenaline spiked and fear stricken as I take the last step, hand pressing to the wall as everything threatens to crumble.

I feel my lips tremble and I'm trying to be so quiet when all I want to do is scream.

I'm panicking, putting thoughts inside my own head. I don't even know if he's here, despite the evidence of his car parked out front in the driveway.

Trying to calm down, I take a deep breath and look up... and what I see causes me to pause before I've even made it through the doorway, my feet refusing to move any further as shock freezes my blood to ice.

Time suspends and crystals drop, shattering at my feet as my head screams at me to run.

I was prepared for a particular scenario but am met with another one entirely... one I definitely hadn't anticipated.

Edward is standing beside the bed with one of his journals in his hands, forehead creased and knuckles white as he stares down at the leather bound collection of pages in his hands, his lashes flickering as I watch his eyes scan from side to side.

It's the same journal I've been reading from; the same journal that holds a small square of yellow sunshine covered in his scrawl.

The same journal he never gave me permission to touch, to read: to love and hate and keep in my heart forever.

It's a breach of privacy; his confessions now mine, too. It's wrong and right and I know without a doubt he's not going to forgive me.

His jaw is tense and his lips are pressed into a thin line. My heart pounds, breaths tight as I inhale through my nose.

He looks up, movement jerky, noticing me for the first time, and I was right—he's so, so angry. He's red and smoke and controlled features; the press of my lips as I hold my breath under his gaze.

I bite the inside of my cheek and fight the urge to turn away, exhaling slowly through my nose.

The bitterness and betrayal is all there, heavily present in his green as he continues to stare, the sound of his fingers as they crease the paper sailing to my ears like ships as they tighten their hold.

It tears at my nerves, words blurring together, confessions struck with a match that burns so bright. He is my fire, my burn, my resulting darkness: my candles blown out with a kiss of lips.

I used to wonder if things would have been different if we'd stayed in Seattle, or if we'd moved to New York like we'd originally planned. And lately, that _what if?_ has resurfaced, shone to the surface in greens and golds.

"Did you read this?" he asks, his eyes fixed firmly on my face.

It's a conflicting feeling being trapped inside this lens, _his attention_, the green familiar as it wraps around my heart like a bush of thorns.

His voice isn't loud, isn't a shout, isn't a demand that makes bones jump and eyes press shut: no bark, no bite, no snap of teeth.

It's the quiet kind of angry that is so much worse.

I nod, my apology soft-light, airy bubbles filled with guilt. "I'm sorry," I say lamely.

It's useless, just a word, a falling feather that has lost its purpose, no longer utilised to fly, but to sink and sail and brush the ground—tangle with all the other fallen nothings.

His smile is bitter, _hard_ as he rips his eyes from mine, head turning to the side as the muscles in his jaw tick. "You're sorry," he repeats, and I rub my hands over my face, because I'm not... not really. But I can't say that to him.

"These are private thoughts, Bella," he pushes out from between his teeth, still not looking at me.

I watch his chest expand, shirt becoming tighter against his skin, and take a deep breath of my own. "I know," I say, taking a hesitant step into the room. "I'm sorry."

I don't think he's listening, choosing to instead discard my apology with another question of his own.

"How much did you read?" he asks, and I swallow heavily, wondering if I should lie.

My tongue doesn't move and my voice is silent, buttoned up tight with padlocks made of guilt-chained plastic links.

I can see that his frustration is growing, quick like vines that run up and along the side of a house. It's at this point I know being dishonest with him will only make things worse.

Finding my voice, I say, "Almost all of that one..." giving him no doubt that that isn't the only journal I've looked through.

His eyes drift to the stack on the shelves, my own following as they focus on the other two that sit at an odd angle.

I have the sudden urge to sweep forward and take the remaining books in my hands before he can snatch them away, desperate and wanting to know what else resides hidden amongst the pages, curiosity bubbling away like toffee-red lava.

I take another few steps forward, feet light against the carpet as I turn my attention back to him. The muscles in his jaw pulse as his free palm scrubs at his face, his frustration flames that illuminate the space around him.

My heart hammers and I'm terrified I've ruined the progress we've been making. It may be minimal to some, but it's huge to our own eyes. "I'm sorry I invaded your privacy," I start, his hands brushing up past his forehead into his hair, "but you don't have to hide these thoughts from me," I say, wanting to reach out and touch his blazing furnace of frustration, try and tame the flames down to a low ember. "I want to know what you're thinking... even if it'll hurt me. I want to know."

His eyes snap to mine, flash like lightning—I've said the wrong thing. "I don't want you to know!" he shouts, that _quiet_ lost as his temper frays like loose cotton. He looks panicked and guilty and so angry. The sight of it makes my heart squeeze.

I can see he's more worried now, worried at what I might have read. His eyes flit from the two journals on their sides back to my face, his concentration pulling at his brows as he no doubt tries to remember what lies inside each separate one.

He watches me carefully, eyes assessing. "Do you secretly hate me now?" he wonders, and my muscles lock in surprise.

Some part of me instantly questions if I should... wonders exactly what else is hidden amongst those pages for him to even ask me that.

"Do you want me to?" I ask him, trying to gauge his reaction as I will myself not to look away under the intensity of his gaze.

His chest expands with his breath. "No."

I take a shaky one of my own as his hand finds his pocket, _worry_ pinching at my throat. "But should I?" I question, not sure if I want the truth now that we're discussing it.

I feel restless, like I want to shift my arms and run my hands through my hair, over and over.

Edward doesn't answer me right away, just stares, and fear prickles my skin, his silence little droplets of pointed ice that sting.

"I don't know," he finally replies slowly, his voice echoing along with the pound of my heart.

It's his turn to gauge my reaction now, lashes dropping up and down with his inspection.

What feels like a thousand scenarios rush through my head at the speed of light, my legs feeling shaky as none of them are good.

"Give me an example," I say, torn, both wanting to stay right where I am, and flee, feet weighted to the ground with wings spread so wide.

His jaw clenches. He says nothing. I try again.

"Will I forgive you?" I _push, push, push,_ feeling the burn of tears at the back of my eyes. I blink quickly, refusing them an exit as I push the heel of my palms to my lids. I lick my lips. "Is any of it... is it about another girl?"

Kate's presence here only minutes before, suddenly resurfaces, her name, her face, the fact she had been here at all having slipped from my mind, like a coin through the hole of a pocket upon finding Edward clutching my favourite little secret within tight fists.

His face is screwed up when I remove my hands, his anger back, luminescent like the stars at night. "No," he says between his teeth.

"Tell me something else then," I say, my words coming out sounding strangled as I try to get a grip on my warring emotions. "Why is it that the one person I don't want to see you with, is always around right now?"

He looks so good, so arrogant; so cool and calm and collected. I want to ruffle his feathers and tear the truths straight from his chest.

"And which person might that be?" he asks me, playing stupid. But I'm not in the mood for games; trophies and congratulatory plaques have no place here.

I stare him down. "Why was she here, Edward?" I'm trying to make my voice strong despite the weakness I feel inside. The scales are tipping and I don't know which way I'll fall.

"Why does Jasper keep ringing your phone, sending you messages?" he counters.

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "How do you know it's him who's phoning?" I question right back.

"Because he kindly reminded me of the fact the day before yesterday while he was here," he answers, eyes sweeping up and down my form. I shiver all over. "I don't think he took his eyes from you once."

I shake my head. "Jasper is a _friend_," I say, emphasising the last word slowly.

He doesn't even blink. "If that's true, then so is Kate," he replies evenly, an almost bitter smile coating his mouth. My chest hurts—he's my stubborn-hearted pain giver.

_Red, red, red._

"I don't _almost_ _kiss_ my friends," I snap, aching at his admissions. It was only yesterday she was _just a girl_.

He's feeding me lies after lies and I don't like the way they taste.

"Why was she here?" I say, watching as he stands there all serene blue and twisted black. My chest rises. "Why was she here!" I repeat. "Are you fucking her?"

My voice is loud this time, strong, heart thump, thump, thumping as I refuse to back down and give in.

The smile slips from his face and the journal that he's kept gripped in his hand this whole time gets hurled against the far wall, paper rustling through the air as it sails across the room, masts high above the deck.

"She was here to collect your dress!" he shouts, nostrils flaring. "She wasn't here to see_ me_. I wasn't _fucking _her."

"What about all the other times?" I question. "Was she just here to collect a dress then, too?" I reply sarcastically, throat thick with tears I won't let fall. I'm being childish, passive aggressive, but this need to find out what she is to him is long overdue.

He glances down at the purse still attached my arm, and suddenly he's all movement. He closes the gap between us, and before I even know what he's intending to do, he has the strap pulled from my possession and is tipping the contents onto the chair behind me.

Anger bubbles inside of me as I try to pull it back; as I try to stop him from invading my privacy like I did him, hypocrisy rapidly flowing through my veins in little red and white cells.

"Stop it," I press, wrapping my fingers around his wrist as he reaches for my phone, but it doesn't deter him.

He plucks it from the pile quickly, swapping it over to his other hand, out of my reach.

I still don't let go, and his head turns, his green studying my features—in any other situation it would be like summer rain kissing my face.

He's close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin, feel the burn of his gaze everywhere. He licks his lips and my own part in response, goose bumps a shivery reminder, silvery willow branches that ignite a reaction.

"It would be so easy to open your messages, read what's inside this piece of shit," he says harshly. "You wouldn't be able to do anything to stop me."

I look between his eyes, get lost in the dark, and I know what he's doing. He's out to prove a point, put a tick next to that box.

"Why don't you do it then?" I suggest, loosening my grip just a little, refusing to play the part I know he wants me to. "I've got nothing to hide," I tell him confidently.

I'm calling his bluff, trying to extinguish the flames before they have the chance to spread any further.

His eyes dip to my mouth before rising back up, locking me in place. "No, you wouldn't," he answers tightly, swallowing. "You keep everything in here instead," he adds, lifting his hand to my head, brushing the back of his pointer finger across my temple as my own fingers slide down his forearm, arm falling back to my side.

"Ask me," I tell him, trying to prove my own point now as his touch lingers. "Ask me whatever you want, and I'll tell you."

He looks long and hard, thinking, choosing his words carefully. "Do you love me, Bella?" he finally wonders.

Disbelief is the pause in my breathing and the widening of my eyes as my lashes become stock still. My pulse races, and I'm instantly wary, shocked, suspicious. I don't trust his motives when he looks at me like this.

His fingers trace down the side of my neck, his eyes following their movement as his lips part. My words are stuck in my throat, a crisscross of garbled netting blocking their exit.

The pads of his fingers pause at the base of my throat, in the dip, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating now, feel the _yes_ to his question humming against his skin.

"What about the attention Jasper gives you, do you love that?" he continues, staring at my skin, not looking up this time. I'm not sure what he's afraid of seeing though—all he'll find are pleading eyes, hope-sick and always his.

I take a deep breath and swallow quickly, two, three times. "He's my friend," I tell him weakly, his pointer finger lifting in a light tap, such a small movement that sends shockwaves through my whole entire body.

I watch his lids blink, momentary dark shadows that flee. "I think you like it because you know it gets to me," he adds.

A bitter laugh leaves my mouth. "Right, because everything is about you," I say, pushing his hand away ineffectually.

I don't want to admit it, but I think what resonates most about that statement, what settles into my bones, is that it's true.

To me, almost everything is about Edward.

It suddenly gets to be too much and I step away completely, putting distance between us. He watches me carefully, a snake that could strike at any moment. He throws my phone behind him on the chair, forgotten as he delivers his next question. "Has he touched you?" he asks.

I press my teeth together and shake my head, looking away to the side as I fold my arms across my chest. "No," I say quietly, harshly, upset that he'd think I'd allow something like that.

"Do you want him to?" he pressures, not missing a beat, pushing and pushing.

"No," I say again, dropping my arms as I remind him of something I think he's forgotten; something he shrugs off every time I bring it up. "I know how much it hurts to witness even the most innocent of touches." I flick my eyes to his, _accusing_, trapping_ him _this time. "I would never do that to you."

He regards me slowly. "But I would?"

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, looking up, blinking quickly. "You already have."

I can feel him watching me, but I don't meet his eyes. Not yet. Not until I know he's not going to excuse himself, over and over.

"You're wrong," I hear him tell me, but I shake my head, because I'm not. I know what I saw.

"It hurts me so much to see her anywhere near you," I confess, lowering my head again as I stare into the space between us. "Just seeing her leave this house, I don't think you realise what went through my head..." I lick my lips "... what tore through my chest."

I listen to his heavy intake of breath and rub my left arm with my right hand, holding onto myself as I try to stay strong under the weight of my insecurities when it comes to this woman.

"Bella... " he starts and stops, his words trailing off; a blur of scenery through glass.

"If this is going to be another excuse, just..._ don't_. I don't want to hear it," I say, swallowing thickly as my eyes rise to his. His hair is in disarray and his top button is undone; his lips are a tight line and the expression alive in his green prickles my skin.

He is the perfect picture of the frustration I feel.

He takes a step forward, trying to eradicate the distance I've put between us, his gaze a dark shackle chained around my ankles. "I couldn't give a fuck about Kate," he says. My heart stutters inside my chest, his voice low, and they're the words I want to hear, they just don't seem to have the same effect I thought they would.

I'm not sure I believe him.

It's this house, the surrounding towns, our life here. I no longer recognise what's ours and what isn't; truth and lies and bullets to the heart.

A cold shiver trickles up my spine as my thoughts from this morning creep back into my bloodstream, a river of blue and red that makes me either brave or stupid.

Maybe a purple swirl of both.

"Tell me what you want, Bella," he murmurs, trying to shift the spotlight off him to me.

It's an encouragement I know he's not going to want the real answer to.

There's a lump in my throat, one that gets bigger and bigger the longer I say nothing, and my chest feels so tight, tight, tight as I take in his features, the expression that lingers in his eyes bringing words to the tip of my tongue.

They suddenly don't want to be stopped, fully alert after having been locked away for so long, the sleep wiped from the corners of their eyes, slumber pulled back like a veil.

The key has been turned and the resulting light that slivers through the gap is too pretty to ignore.

"I don't want to stay here anymore," I exhale. "I can't do it."

My words fly out, escape on an exhale with wings spread. I don't realise how much I mean them until I watch them soar so, so high.

His stare is unwavering, my admission hanging between us like the swinging pendulum of a clock as we both watch and wait: tick, tick, tick.

This is not something he anticipated, and I can see the wheels turning, fear looking for an escape, a rewind button.

"We have a house, Bella," he says carefully, his speech slow as his eyes continue to search, a well worn map outlined across my cheeks, pinpointed with pupils I remember. "This was only ever temporary... it's not a permanent thing."

My lashes blink shut, head shaking, heart cracking.

He's not _getting _it.

"I know all this," I reply quietly, testing out my voice as I open my eyes and look back at him. "I mean I can't stay here in Port Angeles... here in Forks." I pull in a deep breath, ribs expanding as I try for courage. "I don't want to live here anymore."

My mouth feels dry, and he's so quiet, lips pressed shut as my words sink in, a poison to the bloodstream that strips his tongue bare of his reply.

My pulse races, my heart thundering so loud, and it feels like my whole body is shaking as I gaze into his torn and tormented green. It tugs and tugs, the sight instantly making me want to take the words back despite my own wants, snatch them away with a desperate intensity that results in my fingers twitching at my sides.

I hadn't been prepared for this, the heavily conflicted half of my heart screaming at me to stop.

But I'm not sure I can now that I've started.

I don't want to do this to him, force him to make this choice. I should be able to stay here and make him happy. But I know I have to make myself happy in order to do that, and I just can't see that happening when the same obstacles will continue to block our path; will continue to knock us back a step, over and over.

I'm so incredibly tired of living this half life that is dictated by the presence of others, of factors that will continue to be an issue even if we both try our hardest to overcome them. They will always be present: weekdays, weekends, birthdays and the hours in between; in the shared glances across the table, the avoidance when our heads hit the pillows, in the lies that will cling to our backs and follow us around like shadows.

I'm terrified of those cracks, of those false smiles that lead to stony silence and ignore, ignore, ignore.

"Our life is here, Bella," he interrupts, and I smile sadly, the pain present in the curl.

"Yours is," I answer him honestly. "But mine isn't." I run my fingers over my wedding ring. "The only thing here that's stopping me is you," I whisper.

He doesn't like this, his eyes pulling away, truths snatched away from me cruelly. "What about all the memories?" he wonders. "Not everything is bad here, Bella."

His head turns, gaze back as his palm finds my cheek. The contact is a spark to my skin, unexpected and full of promises I know are going to hurt me.

"I remember the first time I kissed you," he murmurs, a hushed secret that belongs to us alone. "Right here in this room."

His thumb brushes my bottom lip and he's making this so hard, so impossible.

He takes that extra step forward, his chest brushing mine as his lips find my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "I remember what it felt like to be inside you for the first time, the noises you made, the grip of your fingers in my hair," he exhales slowly. "You felt so good... you drove me crazy."

His palm cups the right side of my neck as he kisses the left, the space just beneath my ear given his teeth and tongue; his desperation.

I know what he's doing. He's breaking apart inside, trying to fix this with memories he knows mean so much to me.

His mouth moves to my lips, just for a second, taking me off guard as he slides his tongue to mine, his moan making my skin tingle.

The memories hurt, linger like a new burn, but he's not purposely being cruel, I know this. He's just panicking, trying to change the course of my admission, push the words back inside my mouth with a kiss.

It still hurts though.

Especially with his next attempt.

"I told you I loved you for the first time right here," he says hoarsely, my eyes squeezing shut at the bittersweet reminder. "Right where we're standing."

His hands move to my hips, fingers grasping tightly, pushing into my skin as my shirt lifts a little. "You didn't say it back," he continues, the light layer of stubble on his chin scratching my jaw as he drags his lips back to the corner of my mouth. "But it didn't matter, because I loved you enough for us both."

This is where I shatter, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt as my breaths become shallow. My vision blurs and his lips are damp and cold as he presses them to the same place as before.

"These four walls mean nothing," I say quietly, trying to hold back my tears as his mouth presses harder, his determination tearing me up inside. "The memories are here," I say, sliding my palm over his heart, feeling it beat so fast, crying out softly when his teeth press into my skin, punishing me. "We don't need anything else."

He pulls back just enough to focus on my face clearly, his eyes a dark vise around my heart. He's hurting, and I'm doing that to him, but we can't continue like this. We can't carry on this fucked up cycle where we punish one another time and time again, intentional or otherwise.

"Don't do this, Bella," he pleads, and I reach up, fingertips sweeping his temples as I try my hardest to ignore him.

"They're here, too," I continue, undeterred as his hand slides up my skin, over the side of my ribs as he tries to pull me closer again.

My fingers find his brows, his gaze trapped in mine. "Are you telling me you'll forget them?" I question, shivering, trying to hold on. "Because I won't," I tell him earnestly. "I won't ever forget the impact you've had on my life, Edward Cullen. Even if you want to."

His lips part and his lashes glisten, and I know I'm being unfair, but he is, too.

"You promised me forever," I say so quietly, the tears finally setting themselves free as I feel them fall down my cheeks in pain filled little drops. "And I want you to pick me, _love me_, but I can't beg," I say, watching him blink quickly, my voice a cracked and broken whisper. "So please don't make me beg... _please_."

His eyes are wet and his jaw is tight, his mouth now closed as he gazes back at me, the expression on his face breaking me apart piece by singular piece.

"I love you so much," I tell him, grasping his face between my palms as he shudders, "and I'm sorry for doing this, I'm so, so sorry," I cry, hating myself more than just a little. "But I can't live like this anymore. I don't know how... I don't think I can do it."

He tries to pull his face away,_ too much, too much, too much_, and a sob builds in my chest, the sound getting stuck in my throat as his hands slide to my stomach and back to my sides, trying to touch my skin everywhere.

"You have to decide what you want," I say in a strangled whisper, tears coating my cheeks. My hands fall to the front of his chest, lashes fluttering as his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, his fingers moving higher.

"Stop it," he growls, his voice cracking. But I have to make him understand, _explain_, even if I'm not sure how much more my heart can take.

"I'm not doing this to hurt you," I say, my breath getting caught in my throat, his hands strong around my legs as he picks me up and presses my back against the wall.

His fingers curl around my thighs tightly, his lips at my ear. "I said stop," he chokes out, his shoulders shaking.

My eyes fill as I look up at the ceiling, tears spilling out from the outer corners as my heart bleeds. "I have to think of me, too," I say, voice splintering.

My whole body feels like it's breaking, defences shattering down around us like glass. I shiver, crying softly, _continuously_, as he shifts us, his forehead now resting against mine.

"I want to move to the city, go back to school, have us stop being so reliant on each other," I say, nose brushing against his as his breath washes over my lips. "I don't want to be trapped inside this shell we've built around ourselves. It's not healthy; not right."

My fingers find the corners of his eyes, tips coming away wet, the feel of his pain _hate, hate, hate_ against my skin. "But you have to think of you, too," I tell him, his palms shifting higher, holding me closer, the very thought that he may not want me enough an ache that won't leave until he tells me otherwise. "If this is something you don't want anymore, it's okay," I push out, feeling my heart break. "It will be okay."

His eyes are squeezed shut as I kiss his chin gently, and I don't believe my own words, but I have to say them.

I can't _not_.

I push the hair from his forehead, let my fingers linger on his face, and I couldn't do that to him, not speak those words, even if every selfish bone in my body wants me to take them back.

I love him too much... so much that I'd let him go if he asked me to, regardless of how I would feel afterward. How much it would hurt.

Because that's what you do for the ones you love. You set them free, even if it keeps you flat to the ground, knees torn open, staring at all those cracks in the pavement.

You just hope that at some point, they come back.

And that they don't leave you waiting too long.

The tips of his fingers dig into my thighs, eyes now open, gaze dark and wild. My heart races, my blood boiling, fires lit from within.

"You're the only one who's ever been able to really hurt me," he confesses, eyes shining, lips swollen and red. "And you're doing it again now." He eyes search. "Just stop... stop doing it."

His words force their way into my heart with sharp edges that streak my insides scarlet. "You stop," I tear, his pain and anger seeping into my blood. "_You _stop."

He looks long and hard, breaths loud between us, and then we're moving, his open mouth on mine, pressure hard as his palm slides to the back of my head, keeping me in place, keeping me his.

It hurts, more so in my heart, in my beat, tears falling from the corners of my eyes as I press back, fingers digging into his cheeks.

My body trembles as his fingers weave into the back of my hair, handful grasped and pulled as he tilts my mouth over his before pulling apart to lower us to the bed.

He's_ take, take, take_, and _hurt, hurt, hurt_, a soft whimper trapped between us as I realise what this is.

What I hope it's not.

The look on his face making it all too real. And I don't want to lose him. I want to keep him locked up tight in my heart-shaped box and never let him go.

His teeth nip at my neck, a reminder that he's still here, the feel of his tongue a brief reprieve as he tastes my skin, his movements fast, his fingers insistent as they pull at the waistband of my jeans, button open and metal pulled.

My hands grip his hair so tight I incite a groan from his throat, his tongue warm and soft as he pushes it into my mouth with an insistence that scares me, his kiss tasting of desperation as air hisses through his nose.

His skin is hot, his lips painting my skin in fire, denim tugged down my legs with sure hands, cool air kissing and tingling.

It's almost unbearable, this feeling of pain, of anticipation, but it's too good to stop, too good to pull away—to ignore.

His palms run up my bare legs as he presses his body against mine, his tongue stroking my lip before sucking it into his mouth harshly as I draw him closer, arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

He pants against my open mouth as he pushes my legs apart, lips teasing mine still, breath painting my tongue, fingertips stinging brushstrokes to my skin as he slides my shirt up my stomach, his need increasing the speed of his movements.

I put my hands over his, helping him pull the cotton over my head, my fingers instantly tearing at the buttons of his shirt as I sit up, his teeth tugging and tongue sucking at my neck.

"Take these off," I say quickly, pulling his jeans open, sliding my hand inside as he captures my mouth harshly in a groan, almost painfully as he makes quick work of the remainder of his clothing.

I reach behind me, unclasping my bra as he rips the straps down my arms, the feel of his hands on my skin as he squeezes my breasts and rubs his thumbs over my nipples sending shockwaves that tear my heart apart.

His pupils are dilated, eyes dark, my granite ache. I lift my hips from the bed as he glides my underwear off, my legs capturing his hand, knees pressing shut as his fingers tease between my thighs.

I shift against them and he kisses over both knees quickly before sliding his other hand between my legs, making room for his body as he hovers above me.

And the expression on his face right at this moment, it feels like I'll stop breathing. I want to taste it, never forget it; claws inside my chest as the despair and pure, crazy need reflects back at me through a dark and cracked mirror.

"You tell me you love me," he pushes out, swallowing heavily as the backs of his fingers brush along my cheek, his jaw tense, his eyes filled with a pain I recognise. "And yet you want to leave," he finishes, grasping my chin tightly.

I want to shake off his hold as I dig my nails into the top of his arms, blinking back tears. "I want to leave_ here_... not _you_," I say desperately, voice ragged. "There's a difference. It's different."

"But_ I'm_ here," he says, breaking, his movements hurried again as he shifts against me, hips snapping forward, my eyes wanting to flutter shut at the _best, best, best_, his hard against my soft.

I grasp his face in my hands, the tip of his nose brushing mine. "Stop twisting it," I whimper, trailing my fingers down his skin. "I love you," I say, making my voice as strong as I can. "I love you, I love you," I repeat, tears streaming down my face as I feel that incessant tug inside my chest.

He makes a strangled noise and pulls his eyes from my face, his hand moving between us as he pauses for just a second, gaze flickering back to mine and away again as he barely pushes himself inside.

His lips part, his breath loud and heavy against my palm as he stills, a low groan following as he pulls back and rocks forward, going a little further.

I shiver, lashes half blinking, not having felt this in so long, like snowflakes drifting to my skin before melting.

He moves slowly, carefully, driving me crazy as I urge him to go faster, lifting my hips.

He's doing it on purpose, watching me with half lidded eyes as he nips at my wrist.

My breath is lost, stolen by the expression on his face, ashes that smoulder, a blazing trail of fire-licked-green igniting the most basic instincts.

I wrap my legs around him, forcing him deeper, getting a reaction as he pins both of my hands above my head, his breath hot on my lips.

I watch as his eyes dip to my mouth, my chest rising and falling in quick succession, my heart feeling so close to the surface, pressing against bone, trying to get closer to him, ready for whatever he gives.

And he finally snaps, lips pressing back to mine as he begins to move again. His palm finds my breast as he forces his tongue between my lips, his kisses anything but soft as he eases back out.

I pinch his bottom lip between my teeth, and his pace increases, his rhythm punishing as I meet him over and over, my back arching off the bed as he presses against the back of my thighs, pushing my legs wider, bringing my knees higher.

These sounds are leaving my mouth, his mouth taking them, stealing them straight from me as his forearms form a cage around my head, hips driving forward.

We push and pull, fight for control, his eyes a challenge, the pain buried inside the green a constant reminder.

He abruptly stops moving, easing out of me with a groan. He holds me by the waist, bringing me with him, and my breath is loud, matching his, nails scratching his chest as he pulls me onto his lap instead, pushing back inside me as he waits and waits, his palms immediately touching me though, sliding up my sides, brushing down my stomach, setting me alight.

He leaves fiery goose bumps in his wake, my pulse feeling too fast, like it can't catch up to the beat of my heart, like it won't ever catch up.

It's the same thing but it feels different, like I can't breathe.

Like nothing will ever calm.

The tides won't turn and the storm still rages, the waves pulling me under, over and over again, choking on salt tears that burn.

He sighs quick, quick, heavy in my ear as his arms wrap around my waist, hands sliding over my skin, anchoring over my shoulders as he pulls me down harder, hips thrusting up, my lips parting with a whimper.

My lashes feel thick, clumped together with sticky tears and smudging black as I squeeze my chest to his, the feeling of his skin against mine something I never _not_ want to know. His teeth press into my shoulder as he rocks into me, my hands tightening in his hair in response.

He's my crazy, my smiles, the bloom on my cheeks; my tears, my pain, my broken-hearted boy.

He's the beat inside my chest and the ache between my thighs, pink, pink, pink as he slides his tongue along my arm.

He's my grey clouds, the sound of rain against the glass, the thunder that follows.

He's my summer, my blue skies, warmth and sun and blushing cheeks.

_My yellow._

I bring my fingers to his lips, trace their softness, look down into his eyes.

He swallows thickly as he watches me, and I lean forward, feel his groan as his hands curl around my flesh, pulling me harder against him.

"I can't remember the last time you told me you loved me... just outright," I breathe, words tight and strangled, his jaw tensing at my words, eyes watering as my fingers dig into his neck. "I've forgotten what it sounds like, what it feels like," I push out, my admission holding a desperation that pinches. "Tell me... Tell me," I whisper.

My breath hits his lips, his eyes my light in the dark as I will him to say it.

But he won't... I know he won't. Not like this. Not now.

His movements get faster, a punishment that is only hurting himself.

"I told you every day," he pants, lips parting in a groan as he slides further inside me again.

And I know, I know he did.

Those words were the favourite part of my day.

I lower my hand from his mouth, press it over his heart, my touch stronger and stronger.

"I'm asking you now," I choke out, my nipples brushing against his chest.

My heart thumps erratically, a distant hum that forms a layer of burning ice over my skin.

"Then don't do this," he growls, eyes almost frantic as he watches himself disappear inside of me. "I've been trying so hard..." the muscles in his neck strain as he leans his head back, mouth snapping shut, grunt held as my hands form fists in his hair.

And suddenly I want to tell him it doesn't matter, because he's telling me now... just not with words that paint my skin in silver and gold.

My nails scratch over his beat and_ I know_. That expression on his face is something my heart would recognise anywhere, even if it is breaking.

It's sketched into the space beneath my eyelids, has its own special compartment underneath my ribs, inside, crazy, crazy, crazy.

And I want to smile, victorious, but there's no winner here; no space for its appearance in two hearts that are cracking wide open.

"Does this hurt?" he croaks, fingertip trailing down my breast to the skin beneath. "Is it hurting as much as mine?" he asks of my pumping red muscle.

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes watering as, just for a second, I hate him. I hate him so much.

"You did that," he says quietly, spiteful, a single tear running out from his right eye.

I watch its descent, blinking quickly as another one soon follows. And I can't take it—I can't, I can't, I can't.

My lips are swollen and my chest hurts and he could take it all away. All of it. With just three little words that hold the weight of a thousand.

_Choose me_, my lips say as they kiss the side of his jaw, sidestepping the pain in his eyes as I bite the skin that prickles._ Choose this, _us_. Make us more important, please, please, please._

It's startling, the realisation that comes with the silence, his refusal.

"Does it make you feel in control, make you feel like a man?" I push out, wanting those eight letters.

His eyes meet mine, tight around the edges. He's showing me too much, scared. "You like me broken and begging you to say it," I say, watching for his reaction. "That way you always have something over me. Something to keep me here, isn't it?"

His bitter, humourless laugh turns into a cry as I shift down hard onto him, pushing him further into the mattress.

"Does it make you feel better?" I whisper brokenly, sliding my hand down his chest, circling my hips.

He doesn't answer me, but he doesn't need to. I already know the answer is no. We're both already hurting too much to begin with... there's no escaping an already bruising kind of pain. Not to just go into another; not when the first one has yet to fully bloom and heal.

I'm shaking, gasping, eyes sore, aching everywhere. His finger brushes between my legs and I hold my breath for a beat before exhaling slowly, teeth finding my lip as he does it again.

His skin is so warm, the back of his neck damp with sweat as I curl my fingers around, holding on tight.

"Just show me," I whisper, a plea trapped within a breathless want, "just show me." And he shudders, his lips brushing mine every time I shift up and circle back down.

His arms wrap around me, crushing me to him as he presses his face to my chest.

His tongue runs along the curve of my right breast and my lips part, his hand squeezing the left as his teeth bite at my skin.

He's murmuring words against my skin, too low for me to make out. His voice cracks, his expression tormented as he gazes back up at me.

My eyes want to close at what's there, and I'm sinking, his palm sliding along the outside of my thigh, not able to get close enough, breathing a painful necessity as I capture his lip between my teeth, pulling him with me.

He hisses, lids hooded, eyes dark, not leaving as I move above him. He leans backwards, changing our position, his back mostly flat to the bed as he keeps me in place with his hands, hips pushing up and up, loud, guttural noises tearing from his throat.

I don't like that he's not looking at me, my nails digging into the back of his hands as his hips jerk harder at the contact, a whimper keening in my throat as everything feels too good, too wrong, too slow.

I'm trembling, burning, white hot desire as he grabs my waist, fingers digging into my flesh as he moves me how he wants, as he straightens his back, sitting back up, bringing his face just below mine.

I kiss him softly, something he doesn't want right now, mouth torn away abruptly, leaving me with nothing but a hollow ache. But he must think better of it, like the feel of my mouth against his, my lips recaptured again only a blink-quick second later. This time, however, it's different than before, the pressure more intense, discomfort instead of love.

My body thrums, skin prickling in its own version of tears, his rejection a repetitive wound I'll carry on taking. I wonder if he can see what he's doing to me, his eyes on my face as I tremble. He doesn't look away from what's there, so maybe he can't... or maybe that's exactly why his perusal continues. My fingertips drag firmly down his stomach in response.

He wants to be in control—it's the_ gentle, gentle_ that always hurts the most. But he can't dictate something like that. Pain occurs whether we want it to or not. Whether we're ready for its overwhelming essence or never fading scar.

Whether we can handle its weight and carry it with us, like pockets laden with stones.

I close my eyes, cutting myself off from his scrutiny as his fingers rub firm little circles against my second heartbeat, the one that aches between my thighs.

I move faster, pushing against his fingers, lips parting and back arching, wound up so tight, before I fall.

My noises are swallowed up by his mouth as he curls his free hand into my hair, pushing my face almost painfully into his as he shifts up harder, movements erratic, the muscles in his legs and the ones beneath my palms tensing as he finally stills, letting go.

He shudders, and I can taste his groan against my tongue, feel him so deep inside of me as I try to catch my breath.

He pulls back, his breathing just as shallow as mine, his heart beating so fast beneath my touch.

His eyelids are lazy, his fingers loosening in my hair as he just gazes back at me. And he's close, but not close enough. It feels like I'm drowning, seeing so much of him in this moment.

He shudders again, this time as he cups my face between his warm palms as they trail to my cheeks. His eyes search mine for so long, heavy swallows and green that shines. His thumb strokes my skin and his lashes flicker, lids lowering again as he leans forward, giving me one soft kiss that eclipses all the rest: the teeth and pain and punishment.

He takes my top lip so achingly slow, so soft between his own as he tilts his head the smallest amount to the left. His nose brushes my cheek and I can feel his exhale; feel the moment when his lips part from mine. The movement is bittersweet and slow, my chin lifting, mouth following with eyes still closed, not wanting him to leave.

It feels like time has drifted to an almost air-stealing stop, a complete contradiction to the race of my pulse, my inner tick, like morning light as it streaks through the glass come sunrise.

This kiss tastes like goodbye but feels like a promise. And I know which one I'm aching for, which one gets carried in my tear as it rolls down my cheek, paving the pathway for disappointment.

I know which one my heart screams for, which one I maybe say out loud. My lips are moving but I'm not sure there's sound, not sure if I'm asking him or me.

I'm dust, faded, broken little fragments of light that want to shine, that wait to be put back together.

My eyes open and I feel my face crumple at the sight of _his_ squeezed so tight, brows drawn and lips ever so slightly puckered as he swallows hard. And the expression that lies within when his lashes lift... it makes me physically hurt, a crushing stone grip and flames that blaze and ruin.

I know what's coming.

"Please, don't," I say, throat thick as I feel that panic rise.

He shakes his head, pain present everywhere I turn. "Shh," he whispers, still holding my face as my eyes dart to anywhere but his. "It's okay."

My whole body rejects his words, because it's not. I know it's not.

"Edward..." I say quietly, voice cracking, lips trembling, so, so tired. So _scared_.

I hear his breath, his own lump in his throat as he swallows.

"I have to," he answers me.

And I grip his wrists. "You don't," I plead, assure and promise. "You don't."

It hurts to witness the person who is _everything_ look at me like this.

"This has never been about not loving you, Bella," he starts, and I don't like where this is going. I want to get off this track, scrub the burn marks off my wrists, my neck, my every single pulse-pointing ache. His thumb brushes my cheek again, trying to regain my attention, his words continuing when he gets it. "Not once."

And I want to stop him, press my hands to his lips, locks his words inside his mouth with a pleading wall built of fear.

"You're my girl," he breathes, tears burning, and _No, no, no. _

My eyes are sore and I'm begging... _begging_ him to stop.

"You're my this," he says, brushing his fingers from my cheek, trailing them down the front of my throat, right down the middle of my chest, sweeping them left to my heart. "Which is what has also given you the power to break it, over and over."

His voice is so quiet, a ghostly accusation, kisses to the grave.

He takes a hard breath. "I love you," he tells me, voice catching, lashes wet as he presses the tips of his fingers roughly against my flesh, over my heart. Noises build in my throat, wild inside as his admission stains my skin. "And I will continue to love you," he assures, pausing to suck in another deep, shuddering breath. "But this," he says, brushing his thumbs across my temples, "is telling me something different." His gaze drifts between my eyes. "It's setting traps."

I'm shaking, a layer of ice over my heart that is cracking more with his words.

"And what you're asking me... my insides... they're_ screaming_ at me to give it you," he admits. "Give you everything."

It feels like he's tearing my heart out with his bare hands, leaving me with this aching hole inside my chest that bleeds for him alone.

"Do you want to know what it says?" he whispers, his breath hitting my lips, his hands moving to my hips. And I don't. I just want to be back in his arms soaring, falling, trying to hold on. He licks his lips, swallowing his pain. "It says if you can tear my world apart so quickly, so easily, even once, what's to stop you from doing it again?"

My chest rises and falls so fast, a rapidly deflating balloon that gets another hit of air at the very last second.

"You didn't even discuss it with me, Bella," he pushes out, forehead creasing as he studies my face. "You_ told _me. You gave me an ultimatum." His thumb brushes my hipbone. "You want me to leave everything we've ever known on a decision you didn't even include me in until the last minute. Until you were hurting."

He swallows thickly and I feel jittery, my hands clawing at my chest as I shake my head, my heart feeling like it will tear in two.

"I can't just be the luggage you take with you," he murmurs, and the ache that blooms inside my chest is agonising, like I need to scream and cry and never stop. I don't know what to do with it, don't want it anywhere near me.

Sobs build in my chest and _get it out, get it out, get it out._

My arms wrap around his neck, face pressed tight to his skin along with them as I try to stifle the sounds against his throat. His fingers dig into my flesh as I get too close, his breathing shallow, the scent of his skin and warmth of his chest so familiar, that ache so, so painful as I imagine no longer being able to experience any of these things.

"You're the most important person in my whole word," I tell him, the tears falling silently, bleeding into his skin.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Hold me," I whisper. "Please just hold me, just for a second. Hold me back."

I hear those sounds trapped inside him too. "I can't," he says, the worlds strangled.

"You can."

He shakes his head. "I'm scared I won't want to let go."

My face is numb and my eyes feel swollen, red and salt and pain. "Then that's okay," I say quickly, a desperation that literally crawls across my skin.

"I can't," he whispers regretfully.

His hands find my wrists behind his head, trying to untangle, pull me away.

But I hold on tighter, making it harder for him, smothering him in everything he can't handle, selfish and hurting beyond anything I've ever felt.

His words are harsh in my ear, angry for making him _feel_. "Earlier you told me you couldn't remember the last time I told you I loved you." His voice is filled with a bitter pain that coats the back of my throat, trying to choke. "But I can remember the last time you told me," he says, his stubble pressed against the top of my cheek, wistful with a bullet. "Ten months, Bella," he states coldly. "And I _know_," he emphasises, the insistence heavy against my heart, "I _know_ I've told you more than once in that time... _once_."

I hear his words but don't understand them. They float inside my skull and drift around my heart like clouds passing overhead. I'm trying to remember, trying to pull at my thoughts as they speed by in a blur of colours.

And I look for yellow, but only see red.

I close my eyes and shake my head as his arms reach back up, his hands pulling my fingers apart, succeeding this time as exhaustion nestles into my bones as if they were made of the softest fleece.

"So you see," he continues, refusing to look at me now as my arms drop to my sides, "nothing is as easy, or as simple, as it should be."

I'm defeated, armour torn apart, heart unmarked and on full display, arrow points surrounding for the final blow.

But I try again... I'll keep trying this time.

"I love you," I say, wiping the tears from beneath my eyes. "I always have, and there's nothing more simple than that."

He lifts me up, pulling out of me, escape written across his face in black ink that is permanent as I try to wash it away with the palms of my hands, fingers grasping at his jaw, trying to get him to look at me.

He hesitates, not letting go of me completely as I rest on my knees above him, his green holding me steady as I feel my legs shake.

His lips part and I know what's coming. Those arrows move to the center, tips making indentations in my flesh, in the remainder of the armour that's left.

"I don't know if I can go with you," he tells me, jaw tight and eyes glancing up at the ceiling as he tries to keep his pain from escaping any more than it already has. "But unlike you," he continues, swallowing thickly, "unlike you, I'm selfish enough to ask you to stay."

My vision is watery and my teeth grind, and he's putting it all on me..._ again_. I stare him down and he's a coward. But he's being honest, so I show him mine, too; match his pain and smothering guilt, choke on the words as they leave my mouth.

"I don't think I can."

They're quick and sharp and have the desired effect, gaze torn away as he shifts me to the side, removing my skin from any part of his.

He pulls on his jeans, the sound of his fly zipping up so loud in the room, each little metal tooth a grating pull at my arms and legs and face as I watch him.

I drag the sheet to my chest, needing something to hold as he turns his head to the side, back still to me. "I need time to think," he tells me, his voice not sounding like him.

He's hurting me and I hate it, lash out as my nails dig into cotton. "If the roles were reversed, I wouldn't need time to think," I say spitefully, feeling my lips tremble. I'm trying to get a reaction out of him like before, my fear making me desperate. He doesn't listen to me though as begins to leave the room.

"That's it, run along and ask Daddy what you should do."

His shoulders hunch as he freezes on his way to the door for just a moment, my chest rising and falling heavily with my breaths as I watch him walk away from me only seconds later.

I want the slam of the door or sound of his knuckles to the wall, not the silence that follows, the kind that makes you feel pin-drop alone.

I want to scream after him and tell him I don't mean any of the things I just said, but I do. I definitely want Edward to start making his own decisions based on what he wants; definitely want his parents to be less involved in the day-to-day aspects of our lives. But most of all, I want him to _see_ _this_ himself, and want it all enough.

And maybe I'm being selfish, too, but my heart is telling me I'm right. That this is right for us both.

I press my face into my hands as he leaves me in the kind of pain that doesn't feel real; the kind of pain that makes me feel numb all over.

I'm breaking apart as I try to catch my breath, all purple, all ache.

But I'm fully broken as I carry on looking for vanilla ice cream, daffodils and sunshine; as I carry on looking for the last time eight letters passed through my lips other than the ones tonight.

I can't find yellow anywhere.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**Thank you so much for reading.**

**See you in a couple of weeks.**

**VHL xx**


	18. Unarmed

**Hey everyone! Thank you so, so much for your patience while I worked to get this chapter finished. **

**Needless to say, it took a lot longer than expected. lol**

**The biggest thanks to Susan for not only being my amazing beta, but for being my encouragement when I would get distracted. **

**Thanks to the lovely Judy for pre-reading and getting this read so fast.**

**And last but not least, thanks to Jen for all her support.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I just like to make them cry.**

* * *

Bella

Change is something that scares us all. It comes and goes like the seasons, leaving behind gifts of crystallised snow or sun split dirt; breeze-pink cheeks or sticky yellow pollen.

We can try to ignore it, pretend it isn't happening, but we can't discount the mark it leaves behind: the imprint of teeth against soft, pale flesh; the brush of swollen lips that kiss and purge—heart-shredding truths laid bare with a whisper.

We're tattooed from head to foot, detailed maps scratched inside and out, lead etchings that are as visible as the press of ink-dipped fingertips against brand new paper.

Immunity isn't an option—no amount of armour can ever fully protect us, no matter how strong it may outwardly look to those around us: stony faces held proud above dull steel, the tip of a heavy blade an unmistakable threat; its handle gripped within a locked fist.

Our breathing spikes, the fear of the unknown that lingers around this shift indisputable.

It's a hollowed out tunnel shrouded in nothing but shadows, one that doesn't appear to ever end—one that causes a shiver to crawl up our spine and pebble our skin from the unsuspecting rush of a wave, a detonation that chills instead of burns, like ice as it fights against fire.

It's the reason for each and every accelerated beat of our heart; the paper template dyed a dark crimson, sticky-backed and jagged around the edges that adheres itself to the rise and fall of real pumping red muscle.

It flutters like wings, trembles like the leaf still attached to the tempestuous branch during a storm, the one that refuses to break away despite the determination of the surrounding elements.

It's an insistence that, in any other circumstance, would be admired, grudging eyes that glisten like morning's first dew locked on forgotten lumps of coal.

All too soon, our lips press shut, whimpers sealed inside the cage of our chest as the very first lance comes.

We stare straight ahead, our eyes tearing, a translucent blanket that rises, swimming above little pockets of darkness that burst into a ring of colour.

Our vision blurs, raindrops pulled from between our lids as the weight of salt water becomes too much, eventually spilling over the edge with a blink of dark lashes that seep ebony hurt, staining our cheeks with tears that can't be concealed.

Dark crimson imitation crinkles once more, another lance that bleeds, the sting lingering like the hiss of a snake as the sound dissolves to nothing inside our ears, a mixture of salt and sweet diluted in warm, cherry pink water.

We forget that paper can cut, small little nicks that carry the affliction of a thousand more, a paper chain of bleeding hearts that leave a trail for a million others to follow, its path only wide enough for one: single file order to the murky depths of our own fears.

Our body stays so still as shock creeps into our system like a poison, nerve endings swelling a thick black: oil instead of skin tingling purple, toxic vines that sweep and slither.

Impulse screams at us to run, but our limbs haven't caught up, weighed down by life's thick and twisted roots that secure our feet to the ground in a variety of different colours—inside workings that carry a life force of a different kind.

Brown; green and yellow stripes.

But no blue.

There is no neutral here.

Edward is my change. My wounded heart.

And I'm his, love the instigator that started it all—the pretty pink box topped and tied with a bow made of split wire.

Razor sharp.

A warning.

Sweet-to-the-tongue tempting.

I want to reach out and steal back our happiness. Lift the lid with fingers that are in jeopardy of weeping bloodshot tears and carrying the scars of love, one that is still very much present, but heavily guarded.

And maybe with good reason.

Risk appears, tempting me with a curl of glittering gold fingers, leading me to cliff edges that crumble, to rope bridges that sway without a breeze.

The drop pushes back against my face, tilts my world upside down, eyes wide and wanting, fear a green landscape that gives way to consequences that are too far below for the eye to see.

I hesitate and risk parts its gold painted lips, attempting to stamp assurances to my thoughts, typewriter keys click, click, clicking away.

_Jump. _

_Fall. _

_Don't be scared. Real love is the painful kind._

_I'll heal your scratches with a kiss. I promise._

And the only one that matters...

_Edward. _

The pictures trapped inside my head are smoke, whispers, puffs of cloud that slip through the space between flesh and bone, fading to the stark reality of what will be left in front of me if I don't follow the glittering trail at my feet.

A life without him.

I'm terrified I'll forget. Terrified I'll wake up in a busy city filled with lonely people; with nothing but a nameless face and no memory of where it came from, a gathering pile of snapshots that don't look like mine—terrified for the periods of time where I won't think about him, distance releasing our hearts, blade to paper that gets sliced right down the middle.

It's that very concept that freezes my breath to solid ice, ship-big in a channel too small.

Fingertips that don't belong to me reach forward, leaving a trail of dripping gold silk down my throat, and suddenly, I'm choking.

_I'm choking. _

Panic rises, pushing, rockets into darkness and water levels that scale my mouth and nose, airways blocked.

Bubbles float, little pockets of translucent beads that reflect the colours of our life, that carry every good piece of ourselves further and further away, stolen by balloons that breathe fire.

I lose sight of them in the distance, blinking quickly as I try to bring them back, refusing to believe they've disappeared amongst golden sun rays that blind and burst into glittering dust.

I swallow back my tears, focus down, down, down, losing myself in ocean sadness, vision clouded by dancing kelp and scenes plucked straight from nightmares.

A scream rises to the surface as water fills my lungs, fingers reaching for outlines that fade to wisps of black smoke.

To shadows.

_A trick._

My arm sinks back to my side, eyes stinging, defeat the steady beat of a drum that surfs through my blood—I'm all alone, and no one can see my tears.

The voice inside my head is a shout:

_What have I done?_

I look around blindly, panic seizing me once more, metal chains that shackle me to the invisible currents that push and pull; that take and take and take.

My thoughts begin to die, sail away on ships made of broken hearts, and this time, my voice is a whisper.

_What have I done?_

XXX

I sit and stare, fingers tight around a steering wheel, looking at a house that is mine, but feels so distant, foreign languages I recognise but can no longer speak.

The windows are locked up tight, blinds closed, shutting out the world... Shutting out _me_.

Hours pass and I'm not sure I remember how to move. My body aches, my heart in pieces, my thoughts a rotating cycle of kisses, _Edward_, touch, tears; lips, tongue, fingers, breaths, teeth. _I love you. Don't. Please. I can't go with you. Yellow. Yellow. Edward._

I press my eyelids shut, again and again, a ritual that does nothing to stop the sting of tears. I want to block out the pain, eclipse the sun and hide the moon, sleep to forget, gift my dreams to someone else and expel my nightmares with a scream of lungs.

I left without a word; left with a puncture I'm not sure can be repaired, one I had a big hand in creating, in carving out with impulsive truths and skin-chilling desperation. I lift my palm to my chest, pressure hard against my flesh as I try to halt the ache, diminish the pain that makes me feel bone-brittle weak.

It's useless, a feather that tries to shift stone, failed attempts that crash and burn, breaths shaky and sore.

My chest hurts, ribs suddenly alive, living, aching for me. I want to break them apart and scatter them to the ground, bury them in soil where I can no longer feel them.

Early morning light creates a halo around the house, limbs tired and heavy as I blindly reach for the door handle inside the car, vision locked on bricks and mortar.

The scent of spring—cut grass and passing rain—immediately wash over me, attempting to clear out the old and replace with the new, keys gripped and steps hesitant as I make my way forward.

Churning metal and abandoned hallways, mail littering the floor like autumn leaves on a deserted October morning, dust that dances in the beam of weakened sunlight, an abandoned kind of beauty in an otherwise lonely space.

My feet are unsure, my legs shaky under the accelerated beat of my heart. I don't want to be here, not without him, but I have no other choice. He needs time, and I need more than he can give me.

Waiting is the cruelest game of all.

My shoes lay forgotten, my coat heavy across my shoulders and along my arms, my feet bare as I tread amongst broken glass, a war zone of torn up photos and smashed frames; of decanters and china and mementos that were once whole.

Each and every room is made up of broken memories, a kind of glinting and sorry destruction that bears our names and depicts familiar aspects of our faces.

My knees touch the ground, my hands clumsy as my fingers run through the ruins, teardrops a downpour of my own storm, of my own pain and torment.

This is what Emmett had meant in a call that went unanswered: _I called because... I'm worried about... Edward. He's not answering his phone, either... not after that day..._

He'd been too busy creating his own battleground, taking out his frustrations on pieces of me that could physically shatter; that could break beneath the eye and fall apart just like his insides.

This is his gift to me in return to the pain I presented him.

A kiss for a kiss.

A ring for a ring.

I clutch the glass a little harder...

_A scattered heart for a scattered heart. _

My fingers continue to make music and paint the floor a bitter red as I try to rescue the pieces we have left, box them up in pockets too small and hands too shaky while attempting to ignore the ache and sight of these broken bits of us.

Another watery hour passes, hands scrubbed clean and left to sting, stairs creaking as I make my way to a room that will further strip me bare, paint me in jumbled words and half erased promises, unreadable script left behind from the trail of his fingers—from the brush of his lips and tempt of his tongue.

I pause at the door, take in the scene, note the familiar bedding tucked around our mattress, sheets smooth and uncreased, bed unused. A lump rises to my throat as I spot his pillow on the comfy chair in the corner of the room, glass tumbler sitting on the table to its side, whiskey bottle empty, everything of _his_ removed from _mine_.

I suck in a deep breath through my nose and lick my lips, sink into a favoured chair that is surrounded in reminders of _him_. I stare at the bed, at the cold, at my pillow as I lean down and rest my head against _his_ pillow, trying to hold myself together with tape that has been pulled back and forth too many times. But then I find something, fingers catching the soft wool beneath his pillow, head lifted and eyes locked on something blue, something mine, an old sweater I stole from him years before.

My exhale is slow, my chest tight, my tears warm as they trickle into my hair, head back and vision up, painting me in my own regret—in pain and remembrance and rapid debilitation.

I slip the sweater over my head, hide my hands in its sleeves, curl into the familiar, shade my skin with the colour of additional hurt.

Breathe in more of him and wrap myself in punishing love.

XXX

The water rages today. It crashes against chiseled rock the complexion of dull pewter, fraying aside in bubbles of frothy white as it spits at the sky. I can hear its anger, roaring sounds that coat and tremble bone, fevered red clinging to brittle ivory with a wave of vibration.

The sun is out, but the air is cold, an icy wind that nips at my cheeks, fierce reminders with teeth bared.

My phone has been silent for three days, my own lips still, tongue confused and mouth sealed shut, heart set aflame and ashes scattered to the wind, left inside the pages of a book, bookmarked with a tear.

My hands want and my breaths need and my thoughts are all the same. I wait for decisions. I wait for _stay_ or _leave_ or _take me with you_.

I wait for Edward to give me an answer I'm not sure is coming... one that I know I'll have to draw from him and not the other way around, lengths of rope his hands will clutch too tightly, palms red and carrying the marks of fear.

He hasn't been home. He's stayed where he deems it safe—where choices are not his alone and responsibility lies within childhood dreams; within a childhood room where memories spin like a wheel.

Time crawls by with sharpened nails that tear at my skin and make my dreams weep. There is no respite in the closing of eyes, no pause in the blink-wide wonder of being alert.

There is nowhere to hide and no one to find me.

I'm lost all out in the open, blindfold on and spinning world stopped with the tip of a finger.

_There I am._

Work now passes with a loud tick, the store erased of familiar faces, leaving behind nothing but words that belong to someone else—stories of growth and warmth and love; stories that tell a lie and hold the biggest secrets.

Stories that question our truths and discount the true meaning behind them.

Stories like mine, reminding me of promise rings and block-capital initials, like those that adhere to old leather spines and proud front pages.

Like those that are engraved inside precious gifts.

My fingers trace the heart shaped locket around my neck, this reminder made from shining silver and pictures that hide within, familiar faces printed upon once glossy paper.

_This _noose, I choose.

It's a piece of Edward, a piece of me—I draw the metal into my palm and keep us safe the only way I can right now.

The wind picks up, momentum gained as it shifts my hair up and back, strands spinning as they dance midair, twisting in dresses made of soft chestnut.

I allow my lids to fall closed, feel my lashes whisper in the breeze, and let the sounds of incensed blue as it continues to drive against immovable grey eclipse the murmured spiels of piercing doubts that press against my ears.

Minutes tick by and numb has never felt so good.

I leave the ocean for the road, the drive home quiet and already bordering on night, the sky fading from brights to darks, to deep turquoise and grey denim. I notice the birds in their nests and see the first signs of rain on the windshield as I head back to a house that I'm already ready to leave, engine rumbling and foot easy on the pedal.

I pull into the driveway, heartbeat speeding up when I spot a car I don't recognise parked in my usual space.

I take in the person standing outside, suitcase at their feet, curiosity potent in the way my gaze lingers as I step out onto the gravel.

Something flickers at the edge of my memories, candlelight bright and familiar, a dancing flame and melting wax as the girl turns toward me—deep blue eyes, just like one of her brothers.

It's then I recognise her, muscles locking, surprise stealing the conviction from my voice as I freeze, keys in hand.

"Alice?"

Her hair is longer than I remember, past her shoulders in a sleek dark curtain as she looks back at me, lips pursed and brow furrowed.

I'm not sure what she sees, what she's looking for, but her eyes pierce and prod, leaving me feeling exposed.

"Hi, Bella."

Silence gets carried away in raindrops that glisten in the fading light, her stare unnerving as she shields her hair with the newspaper I'd failed to see in her hand until now.

Her overall presence isn't that surprising—I knew she'd be in town for the wedding—but I'm not sure what she's doing_ here_, at this house, instead of her parents'.

A lump fills my throat, but before I can say anything, the keys are taken from my hand as she walks up the steps and unlocks the door, leaving it open for me.

Nervous, but having no reason not to, I follow.

I find her in the kitchen, busying herself with starting the coffee machine, something I rarely use, her suitcase half blocking the doorway as I maneuver around it.

"Coffee?" she asks without looking back at me.

I find myself shaking my head even though she can't see me. "No, thank you."

She sets a mug in front of the machine before finally turning to me, hands still on the counter behind her, fingers drumming underneath the ledge. "You look tired," she notes.

She's always been like this, honest in her answers and the way she talks. We've never been friends—not that we've ever had any reason_ not _to be, either—but I know_ this _about her. I was witness to enough of the fights she'd have with her brothers growing up to understand that Alice is not one to hold back her opinions.

"I don't mean to sound rude," I start, "and you're welcome to stay however long you want... but why are you here, Alice?"

She cracks a small, sad smile before answering, "Because I need to be."

Her reply is evasive, confusing, my brows crinkling. "Is there something you want my help with?" I ask, thoughts a jumbled bouquet of letters.

She turns her back for a moment to fill her mug with steaming hot coffee before pulling out one of chairs at the table to sit. She arches a brow and nods to the one opposite, but I don't feel like sitting right now, wanting this small amount of space we currently have.

"I'm fine standing," I reply, tucking my hair behind my ears.

She blows on her coffee, her words shocking, electric bolts that flash in the sky, the thunder that follows, shaking, shaking. "Do you still want him?"

It all suddenly becomes so clear, her sudden appearance as she wastes no more time in revealing the reason she's_ here_ and not _there_.

"You've spoken to Edward?" I guess, the very thought of him trapping sounds and exaggerating beats.

"I've seen him," she corrects, pushing out the chair nearest to me with her foot, and this time, I do sit. "I arrived back from New York two days ago."

"Did he ask you to come here, check up on me?" I question, watching her face closely, searching for clues. She says nothing and I add, "What did he say?"

She takes a mouthful of her drink, assessing me with her denim blue. "He said a lot of things," she answers. Then, "You still love him."

It's not a question, but I answer it anyway, a truth shaped of hearts and stolen kisses in the rain. "Yes."

"Then why aren't you fighting for him?" she fires, response instant, explosions and too loud sounds, gun pointed, making me listen.

Her comment catches me off guard, my throat tight, bubbling words a length of burning rope around my neck as shock renders my tongue useless.

"I _did_," I press, feeling my insides twist. "You haven't been here. You don't know."

"Then where is he? Why isn't he here?" she shoots back calmly. Alice takes a sip of her coffee, her expression easy as she appraises me over the rim of her mug.

It must seem so simple to her, so easy, say a few heated words and our problems disappear. But that's not how the world works... That's not how _Edward and I_ work.

"There are two people in this marriage," I remind her, feeling trapped, singled out. "Why don't you ask him."

"I did," she answers without further explanation, moving on to another round of bullets. "So, he left you?"

The way she's watching me... she knows what's happened... she knows and is doing this on purpose. "It's not as simple as who left whom," I tell her.

"Before now," she starts, pushing and pushing me, "did he once walk away?"

My chest hurts, fingers pinching skin and muscle. "No," I say thickly, choking tears that build like bricks, hating where this is going.

She doesn't say it, but she doesn't have to; I know what she's thinking: _You chose this, Bella. It's your fault._

"He's different," she continues, all attack, attack, attack.

My breaths are shaky as I inhale slowly—she doesn't have to clarify who the_ he_ is. "I know," I say quietly.

"He looks like you... tired and hurting," she comments, reminding me of all my misgivings; ensnaring traps and holes in the knees of your favourite pair of jeans.

My eyes water, dams burst and confessions a desperate example of needing and wanting help, even if I don't always ask for it. "We're so broken, Alice," I murmur hoarsely, splintered hearts and shattered china, "and I don't know what to do... I'm not sure if love is enough to fix us anymore."

She doesn't reach across the table to grab my hand like my mother would if she were here, doesn't wrap me up in a hug and assure me everything will work out in the end; magic tricks and rainbows in the sky. She shares words instead, words that clear pathways and clean out cobwebbed corners.

"I used to be so jealous of my brother for finding love so young," she admits easily, scratching her nail over the handle of her mug. "I've never found _the one_, you know? And he did... he did when he wasn't even looking. It didn't seem fair to me, but then I guess that's how love works... it's _not _fair." She levels me with her gaze, reiterating what I already know but can't always achieve. "Which is why you fight and fight, even if you're exhausted. You take space, a breather, but you never give up, because any version of love is special, Bella. That ring on your finger is _yours_: don't take it off until you're sure you've done everything you can to keep it right there."

My tears fall freely now, tired to the bone and wanting to sleep away nightmares and complications that puncture and leave cracks. "Shouldn't he want all that too, though?" I press. "Shouldn't he fight back?"

"Yes," she answers, getting to her feet to dump her mug in the sink. "But," she adds, "it doesn't mean that you should stop. It just means you're stronger than he is... and sometimes that's how couples work, however unfair it may seem."

"I don't feel like I'm stronger," I confess, tumbling feathers and sea foam.

She shakes her head, dismissing my claim. "Bella, it takes a stronger person to admit there's a problem than those who don't say anything at all."

I wipe my cheeks, over and over. "But I did that for so long... I _still _do that now," I say.

She places a glass of water before me and says simply, "Then turn your whimpers to a roar and be heard."

There are no more words of wisdom, no sweeps of the hair or smiles of encouragement. She pauses by the door, by her suitcase, asks if she can take the spare room, waits for my nod, and heads for the stairs, leaving me alone with my thoughts—leaving me alone with a memory that spirals like a staircase, one that screams of possession and the language of the sun.

**~CitP~**

"You sure you can't go?" Mike asks again towards the end of class, pausing at the front of the desk Edward and I share. He wants me to go to this party with him tonight after the football game; I'm not interested in either: the party _or _him.

Edward's hands curl into fists beneath the table and I nod in reply. "I'm sure," I reiterate.

He sighs loudly but accepts my answer. "Okay... maybe another time," he says with a knock of knuckles to the wooden top before returning to his own seat.

Silence settles over us then, tense, like hot summer rays without that much needed breeze.

Edward and I have been messing around after school for the past week, ever since he kissed me in his room for the first time. We've done nothing more than that—_kiss_—and we haven't spoken about labels or anything else. It's been fine... but the awkwardness that lingers now is impossible to ignore, like ice cream as it drips down your fingers, melting before you have time to eat it.

"You could have gone with him tonight, if you wanted to," Edward says, clearing his throat.

Disappointment settles inside my stomach as I look over at him. He's flipping through his textbook, pages turning far too fast for him to be able to catch more than the odd word.

"Oh," is all I can say.

He runs his hands through his hair, his right knee—the one nearest to me—bouncing. "Don't all you girls go crazy over those blue eyes of his?"

I want to laugh, but settle for saying, "Bright eyes but a cold heart."

We've been reading Shakespeare, so I probably sound like an idiot, but I don't want him to think I'm interested in Mike Newton in... _any _way.

He looks at me then, eyes gliding over my features. "How can you tell?"

My pulse beats so, so fast, a runaway train and sparks to my heart. "Because I don't feel warm all over when he looks at me," I answer.

I see the start of a smile start at the corner of his lips. "No?" he questions, his voice lower... lighter.

"No," I repeat, trying to stay cool when the side of his hand brushes against mine, branding my skin with the burn of his touch.

The left side of his mouth pulls up higher, taking me with him. "What do you feel when you look at me?" he asks.

My tongue feels dry, butterflies set free inside my chest. Nerves take over and I feel like I've forgotten how to speak, especially when he holds me hostage in his green, green, green. "Sun-kissed," I answer him eventually, smiling at how silly I sound. But it's true.

I feel my cheeks flush, his eyes lingering, making it worse, and then he's glancing towards the front of the room—once quickly—before turning back to me, his lips finding my cheek.

I can sense stares at the back of my head, but I don't turn to look at the faces I know are watching. "Come over tonight?" he asks me, still so close, making me kite-high dizzy.

I say "yes" and surround myself in summer.

**~CitP~**

Now it's more sunburnt than sun-kissed, pain along with the good, the sometimes rainbow after a storm.

I finish the whole glass of water and replenish my tears, all while my thoughts are a whirlwind of_ I'd do anything to go back to that time._

XXX

Alice and I rarely speak the two days that follow. I work during the day and she's busy, always taking calls in the evening. I find I don't mind it, having her around, even if the silence does feel a little awkward sometimes.

I'm staring at the clock, watching the minutes aimlessly tick by with the phone in my hand, searching for excuses that won't come to mind, that evade like the moon come daylight.

Alice left hours ago for the wedding rehearsal while I stayed home with messaged apologies that promised I'd be at the dinner tonight. But now the time has come and my feet are cold and the prospect of seeing Edward shreds my resolve to flashes of confetti.

I'm scared of what I'll find; scared of what time has decided. I'm not sure I'm ready for choices that will shape the course of my life; not sure I'm ready to potentially be alone.

It's as I'm debating avoiding the situation until tomorrow—the actual wedding—that Alice knocks on the door. She's already dressed, her hair in soft waves, her expression leaving no doubt in my mind as to what she's about to say.

"Why aren't you dressed?" she wonders, stepping further into the room.

"I don't think I can go," I whisper, hating the sound of my weakness.

She pushes open the doors to my closet, shifting through the clothes on the hangers, pausing once or twice before selecting a strapless blue dress I haven't worn since last year, during a birthday dinner that ended in tears of the wrong kind for gifts and celebrations.

"You can. And you will," she assures, pulling me to my feet before pushing the material into my hands. "You've got five minutes, and then we're leaving. No excuses."

It's hard to argue against the kind of surety she possesses. I want to steal some of the strength from her eyes and carry it around in the palm of my hand; keep it close, keep it mine.

She leaves me alone to change, locket on display, swimming above a crest of blue: I test its hinges, look inside, and it's all the incentive I need.

The drive to the Cullens' passes by in blurred scenery and the sound of spinning tires. It causes the apprehension in my stomach to jump to my throat, nightmares of dark browns and haunting blues, remembrance of the last time I was here an ache that smarts between my ribs, knife twisted.

Fairy lights adorn the trees along the driveway, branches aflame in golden warmth, matching the glow of my fear. The engine cuts, its rumbling still present in my ears despite the quiet that has now replaced it: its sound accompanies the bumpy drive of my pulse, the pitter-patter of my heartbeat.

Alice steps out from the car, door clicked shut behind her, darkness a blanket in which to hide, a respite for closed lids. I think she'll leave me to make my own way inside, but she surprises me by waiting for me outside, a look shared between us that speaks more than words.

"What if I'm not enough, Alice?" I say, the crash of noise that hits us from the entryway a wave that swallows the momentum of my words.

She smiles at someone who passes before giving me all of her attention. "Why are your eyes already saying goodbye?" she says with a frown.

"Because there is about to be a _before_ and an _after_ and I'm scared of both," I answer, voice trembling like the string of a violin.

"No one else can give you what you want," she reminds me, giving me a pointed look.

I let my eyes travel over the people around us, recognising some faces, discounting others. "I know," I say quietly, watching Esme and Rose laugh at something from the corner of the room.

I briefly wonder if they know... if Edward has said something to someone other than his sister. He's been staying here for the past week without me—I'm not sure what excuses he could have given this time that would have discouraged anything but the obvious.

"Then don't let this," she says, interrupting my train of thought, her voice bringing me back to the present as she taps her temple with the tip of her pointer finger, "affect this." She briefly holds the heart shaped locket around my neck between her fingers before letting it drop back to my chest.

She gives another smile to a nameless face that passes and I say, "Thank you."

Her blue eyes drift over my face before pausing on my own gaze for just a second, dark lashes now still. "I didn't do anything," she dismisses, straightening out her dress. And then, "I'm going to go say hi to the bride-to-be. Are you coming?"

I shake my head. "In a minute."

I watch her go before turning to the side, the hem of my dress brushing against my legs as I stand in the open doorway, fabric dancing in the breeze to music that does not exist. There are voices and there is laughter, but their sounds are not songs, despite their high octaves.

It's nowhere near enough to make my feet want to move in any other way than run.

A hand rests on my shoulder, a weighted palm that is light in touch but heavy in meaning.

Its size is familiar, and I'm reminded that, for now, I have to be here.

"Rose wasn't sure you'd show," Em says conversationally, his voice not particularly loud, but not low enough to draw attention to_ maybe_ secret conversations, either.

"I said I would," I say, tilting my head to look up at him, gracing him with a smile I hope doesn't come off as anything but happy for him. "You're getting married tomorrow, Em. You're family... Of course I'd be here." I squeeze his hand like he has for me so many times over the years, resting my palm over his knuckles for a few extra moments, a silent thank you for a lot of things.

He kisses the top of my head and my arm drops back to my side, gaze drifting, instinctively searching for green eyes in a sea of others.

It's almost like déjà vu, this scene to me now. The one where Edward stands off to the side with a pretty girl with big brown eyes and a red lipped smile. The one where he smiles and laughs and tips his head further back to accept the contents of his glass.

The one where _her_ eyes don't leave and my heart breaks and nothing will ever feel the same again.

The recurring nightmare.

Edward looks at me then, straight from across the room, my heart stuttering inside my chest, mismatched beats catching up to an unsteady rhythm.

His lips move, answering questions I'm not privy to, but his eyes are all for me. They pass along the exposed skin of my arms and slow across my chest, trail up my throat to my mouth, pause on my wide and wanting brown.

He takes a mouthful of amber liquid and I burn right along with the taste, blood warmed and singing for more. This situation reminds me of the first time I saw him here with her, in this house, close to Christmas—to a special season that had lost its sparkle, like the night sky missing the twinkle of stars.

I feel Emmett shift beside me, feel him watching me. "Come on, Bella," he says softly, trying to persuade. "Let's get a drink."

I shake my head, keeping my gaze exactly where it needs to be as the familiar signs of stinging tears form at the inner corner of my eyes. "I'm not thirsty," I answer him distractedly.

Edward continues to stare back at me, his fingers working over his jaw as he nods his head to whatever is being discussed. "You know that means nothing, right?" Emmett says, referring to where my attention is directed. "Don't upset yourself."

"I'm not," I lie, swallowing against the pain that rises inside my chest like a cloud of smoke. Then, "Do you like her, Em?"

He's quiet for a moment, but then asks, "Who? Kate?"

I nod even though I'm not sure he's looking. "Yeah."

He sighs, the sound of his suit jacket brushing against his shirt accompanying the sound. "I like her enough," he answers. "She's good to Rose, which is the most important thing, right?"

"I guess," I answer quietly, wanting to pull my eyes away from the scene across from me. I feel trapped, vulnerable under Edward's fixed stare. He's beside a woman he knows tugs at my insecurities. A woman who touches him like he's hers; a woman who can make him smile; a woman who is so pretty I can barely stand to look at her.

But I_ do_. I turn my whole focus to her and look so hard, feeling that bubble build in my throat as I wonder what it is about her that draws him in, like a bright spark in the dark.

"Do you think she likes him?" I question, giving life to words that scurry through my head every time she's near.

"It wouldn't matter if she did," he answers me. "Edward's only ever loved one girl."

My throat is painfully tight, sugarcoated lies the hardest to swallow, their taste sweet and tempting you to believe: more than anything I want to savour their truth.

"He told me he'd thought about her," I say, dropping my eyes to stare at the patch of skin between Edward's undone top button. "He told me how easy it would be to be with her."

I'm under no illusions of how light and simple it would be between them. Kate is innocent touches and serene smiles and evidently something I'm not.

"But that's just it," Emmett interjects, pushing through the fog of my thoughts as he slides his arm over my shoulders. "Love isn't supposed to be easy. It thrives off passion, which is fierce. If there's no passion, it can't exist." He gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Does that look anything like that to you?"

"Love is different for everyone," I say. "It never works the same way twice."

"I know my brother," he insists quietly, pushing my statement aside. "He's always been crazy about you, ever since we were kids. You've got nothing to worry about."

I know Edward loves me, but I'm not sure it's enough to heal these wounds; not sure it's enough to close this hole that has opened up inside of me.

Emmett murmurs more assurances, and I'm maybe about to concede, but then Edward slips his arm around Kate's waist, drawing her near as a server passes her from behind, his hand lingering afterwards, lower spine and all too intimate.

He knows I'm watching, is sure of how this will look; certain this will affect me.

My heart hammers and confidence breaks, flames dulled down to a low ember. I press my teeth together and close off my gaze as he strips me of his absorption, eyes lost behind a curtain of mahogany strands.

"Are you sure about that, Em?" I say sadly, looking up at the sweet man who is getting married tomorrow, my throat thick with tears as I finally turn my back to a scene that makes my chest feel like it's caving in. His brows pull low, his inhale deep, and it's not fair, lodging this bitterness inside his happy moments. "I'm sorry, forget I said anything."

Tables start filling, lighthearted rings of smiling faces that threaten to crack the forced one that plays at my mouth. I'm jealous of each and every one of them and hate myself for it.

"Come find me later, okay?" he says pointedly, his gaze flitting to his fiancée, the worry momentarily leaving his expanse of blue as happiness radiates across his face.

"Go," I urge, holding my smile in place a little easier this time. He kisses the top of my head and I take a deep breath once he's left, eyes scanning the placards for my name.

I find it soon enough, next to a surname I carry but don't always feel as my hands curl around the back of the chair. I look at the other names around the table as best I can, my smile falling away, hiding amongst boxes labeled 'lost and found' over the familiar names I see.

I'm instantly wary while distant family members continue to pass me to take their seats. I think about slipping outside, but my pulse starts to race and I understand why. The thought grinds to dust, lips locked and vision stuck on my own name.

I feel him before I see him, electric to my skin and jolts to my heart. Warmth kisses the back of my neck, but he's not touching me, his presence more than enough to burn.

"Are you going to sit?" he wonders, caging me in as he takes a step closer, hands either side of mine on the back of the chair.

"I'm not sure," I answer, glancing around me, resisting the urge to turn and find his eyes, lose myself in green intensity.

"You want to leave?" he questions, his breath so hot against my skin.

"I thought about it," I reply.

He doesn't move, his voice a murmur, his words sarcastically cruel. "I would say that's surprising, but then I'd be lying, and we've used up enough lies."

He's still angry, still hurt, but so I am. _So am I_. "You lie all the time," I remind him bitterly.

He shifts a little closer, his chest flush against my back. "You want something true?" His skin burns through the cotton of his shirt, branding me his, flames that trail my spine and spike my blood with the shape of his name. "You're beautiful," he whispers as Alice sits down across from us, his words dissolving the ones poised on the tip of my tongue.

My voice feels unused, frayed cotton that will unravel to nothing. "Who else have you said that to tonight?" I ask.

I feel his inhale push against me, my fingers tightening in their grip around wooden slats. "Just you," he answers.

Alice eyes us for a moment before resting her elbows on the table, head turned to the side, giving us her form of privacy without drawing any more obvious attention to us.

"Tell me something else," I say quietly, blinking through the moisture trapped between my lashes.

He fills me up and strips me bare, my love for him burning bonfire bright, a match that burns everything else to the ground.

I hear him swallow, watch Jasper pull out his chair, ignore the way Kate strikes up a conversation with Esme on her way over here.

"I want to touch you so fucking bad," he says lowly, a secret just for me as I tell myself I'll be brave and not fall apart, gun loaded and bullets a metal band around my wedding finger.

My lips tremble and I want to ask him to hold me like he used to, when stars were still a wonder and he could never get enough of my mouth—when the words _I love you_ didn't mean living them alone.

His lips brush my hair and I wonder if he remembers when marriage wasn't a curse of physical aches and exchanging vows were the most beautiful declarations we'd ever make.

"I think you've held enough girls for one night," I push out, feeling the rawness of my words inside my throat.

His knuckles turn white, grip strengthened, refusing me my escape, my cheeks flushing further. I place my hand on his arm—over his jacket—and turn just slightly, finally meeting his eyes: he takes me away with a look and it feels like I'm stardust. "There," I say quietly, "now you've touched me."

His lips part, his breath hard as I uncurl his fingers and push his arm down, stepping out from him before sliding into my seat, my heartbeat racing away from me.

Jasper meets my gaze and gives me his smile, my mouth lifting at the corners just slightly in response as I hold my hands together tightly underneath the table, feeling so shaken up inside. Fingertips graze the side of my neck and my already waning smile falters, my breath caught as Edward leans down to brush his lips to that sweet spot just beneath my ear, his touch a whisper.

His following words are the lightest breath, their meaning a storm. "Is he the only one who gets your smiles tonight?" he asks of my skin.

Goose bumps sweep fast as I shiver. He's not playing fair, but he never has, not even when times were easier and lightness filled our every touch, sun blushed and dizzy.

My words feel swallowed up, my tongue overused. "Give me a reason to smile," I tell him, "and they're yours." There's a slight pause—from us both—in which I glance back up at Jasper. I find his eyes still on me, his smile no longer present, but I don't want to focus on the reasons why. Instead, I shift my attention to the pretty pink napkin on the table and keep it there.

"I could say the same thing to you," he replies, pushing my hair over my shoulder, out of his way, the table now full apart from the empty space beside me that belongs to him.

"I don't want your smiles," I say, the very core of a lie, my voice rusty copper and stubborn hinges—it's something I'll never not want.

"I love you," he murmurs, his thumb ghosting bones that feel too weak and skin that feels too hot: chills and ignitions and my three favourite words. "Is that better?"

_No_. He continues to touch me in too soft ways—I want to hate him. My blinks are quick and I'm trying so hard not to fall.

"Tell me again when you're not trying to prove a point," I say with a forced smile, trapped under the weight of his stare, "and you'll get a real one."

His lids lower to halfway, my heart beating high and fast in my throat, fingertips holding its vibration for safekeeping. He presses forward, just a little—just enough—for his lips to find mine, feather soft pressure that makes me want to weep—that is crushing in its fragility.

I want to fade, erased strokes and clouds threaded pink and grey. I'm aware of the people around us, aware of the eyes that watch and wonder; that burn in green flames.

Edward's actions are not out of the ordinary for a married couple. We're supposed to be this: kisses and whispered words that look like affection but carry the driving force of sparkling resentment.

My fingers curl around the sides of my chair, breathing shallow and shared with another, pulse a flyaway bird in a travelling circus of wires.

"One for the road," he says, his words twisted and cruel and coming straight from that dark place inside of him that is desperate to gain control.

There is a noose around my neck that is made of the expression in his gaze and the residual effect of his pain. I turn away, break the chain and pull at the braid of rope that tries to leave patterns around the skin. "I wish I could hate you," I breathe out.

He straightens, hand curving around the back of my neck as he takes his place next to me, his reply driving right through my chest, leaving me exposed. "I know you do."

His touch finally leaves and I look up and around at the faces that surround me, the shape the base of a dome: I wonder if we were to shake, would the roof give way to snow, blanketing us in flakes of sorry and saddened ice?

Kate is on the other side of Edward—next to Jasper, who is opposite me—and Alice sits to my left, a silent table of five. I reach for the glass of water in front of me and swallow down against the ache: dissolve it, drown it.

"Your dress is pretty, Bella." The sound of her voice makes me feel sick inside.

I pass Edward's eyes—ignore the way they flit to mine—and focus on the girl beside him. My nails dig into the tablecloth as I tell Kate, "Thank you."

"I picked it out," Alice interjects, twirling her glass of wine from the stem. "You've always liked blue on Bella, right, Edward?"

He turns his attention to his sister, his expression stoic. "Yes," he answers. And then, "Isn't your luggage blue?" to me.

Jasper leans forward in his seat, reaching for his drink. "You're going on vacation?" he wonders.

I look up, skin prickling as Edward answers for me, his gaze steady on the boy with pale gold skin and hair. "A permanent one." He downs the entire contents of his glass and briefly sucks his lips to his teeth as he asks, "Right, Bella?"

My heart is drumming hard in my chest, marching to my throat, my tongue, my lips as I press them together, fighting against their vibration.

"I don't understand," Jasper replies, watching us both carefully.

Edward pushes out a humourless laugh, releasing more breath than sound. "Stop it," I tell him, swallowing back my tears.

He refills his glass, the muscles in his jaw ticking. "I thought you wanted us to start being more honest," he responds just as Alice starts firing questions at Kate from across the table, attempting to break up the tension with inconsequential things.

"Not like this," I say thickly, biting the inside of my cheek, refusing to look at him.

He's on the attack, lashing out, gifting me his pain with open palms and cutting sounds. His chair shifts closer and he twists in his seat, elbow on the table, half covering us, creating our own little bubble: he's so close, so hatefully beautiful. "Why?" he wonders, his eyes running over my face. "We're with family... with _friends_." He emphasises the word friends as his hand finds my thigh, his jaw clenching again. "Jasper's your _friend_, isn't he, baby?"

I can do nothing but look, his pupils hard granite reminders, etching me in shadows. "Why are you doing this?" I whisper, voice stripped down and raw, like sand rubbing against sand.

I think I see a sudden change in his expression, a breakdown of a wall, but his fingers tighten, his words dark, fleecy clouds that smother. "Because I love you."

His face blurs for a moment before tears fall, and I reach up quickly, discreetly trying to brush them away. "Get away from me," I say quietly.

He swallows thickly, each pass of his eyes tiny shards of glass to my skin, slicing open old wounds. "Why, so you can leave?" he questions, his voice strained.

My chest hurts, blooming aches and ink smudges. "Yes," I tell him, wanting to hurt him back. "Yes, so I can get so, so far away from you."

He cups my chin with his thumb and forefinger, pinning me in place, green eyes shackles around my wrists, lips so close, breath my own. "You don't want to go upstairs, break me a little more, fuck one last time before you do what you do best, and run?" he questions, his touch burning my skin.

I hold back my sobs, paint him in watercolours. "Go to hell," I breathe.

His gaze shows its first sign of weakness, a wave of watery pain. "You're leaving me... I'm pretty sure I'm already in it," he confesses, secrets to the grave and the cold dead of night.

My hands shake, ring heavy on my finger, promises we didn't keep. The clear distress on his face: the anger, the hurt, it all crushes my insides to fragments of dust. I need space; I need him to not be touching me. I need to walk out of this room and breathe.

I give him no warning, no chance to hold me back as I shift out of my chair, my eyes meeting Jasper's for a fleeting second before I'm on my feet, weaving my way around the tables, amongst the lingering stares and eyes that pay me no heed.

My walk is steady despite the race of my heartbeat, freedom in the form of ascending stairs and an empty hallway, a small alcove that hosts a window seat with floral swirl patterns on its cushions.

It's then I finally let go, lean back against the wall, let it be my strength as I crumble. My breaths come shaky, my pain silent, my lips parted, sodium pink as they collect my tears.

I feel tattooed with invisible bruises. Every muscle aches, especially the one pounding out its tortured beat. My lashes meet, lids closed, caught in a daydream of bleeding hearts and pained expressions when I feel the press of a palm to my shoulder.

I jump, I shiver, words caught in my throat when I come face to face with Jasper, his concern present in the pull of his brows and frown that plays at his mouth.

Silent communication and slow blinks pass between us before he asks, "You're really leaving?"

I don't like the sounds that come from his lips, shaping words that feel like screeching metal on the back of my teeth: living, breathing indecision. My tongue won't work and I can do nothing but shrug.

His arms wrap me up against his chest, my body stiff as my cheek meets his warmth, the sensation against my skin reminding me of hot summer air. He tells me everything is going to be okay, his words meant to reassure and comfort, to deceive with blankets made of tempting fleece.

But he doesn't know, doesn't realise, could never understand.

He strokes the back of my hair, touch gentle, reminding me of different hands and moments that squeeze at my heart—a revolving door, scenes trapped within the glass.

_Kiss me... I'm going to marry you someday, you know... I told you I'd catch you... You have a little ink on your cheek... You don't like me?_

_My favourite part of the day is waking up with you right next to me... I want the kind of forever that makes others jealous... You don't love me?_

_Please... Bella?_

My vision blurs and tears trickle down the sides of my nose as my head tilts, desperation clutching at me with shaky palms.

Anger suddenly clouds my judgment in stormy greys and bitter yellows, the recurring nightmare back, Edward's words meant for someone else, his smiles for another, his self-doubt crushing another girl's heart.

And, no, Jasper doesn't know... but he could take it all away.

A sob builds inside my chest and pushes its way to my throat, lips pressing shut against this idea that causes the ache beneath my ribs to intensify, colouring me with fear.

_I can't. I won't._

"Don't cry, Bella," Jasper says quietly, blanketing me further in his soft appeal.

His sweetness only makes it worse, my swallow like sandpaper. And_ how can I not, _I want to scream, feeling so broken down inside, mismatched and lost pieces of a puzzle.

_How can I not?_

My face turns, pressing into the white cotton of his shirt. He smells like scotch, memories lit in bronze, bile rising to my throat as I remember amber kisses and declarations of_ but it makes you mine._

It's this that makes me take that much needed step back, flesh tingling as Jasper's palms slide down my arms, a quiet moment that carries far too much misplaced expectation.

His face is closer than I anticipated and guilt sticks to every section of my skin that he touches. But at the same time, something whispers that it's just so nice to be held, to be comforted—to not have to ask for either of these things.

It murmurs that if Edward can take comfort in small touches from another, why can't I?

Jasper's gaze lingers on my face, the look in his eyes changing from concern to something else; something I want to wash away with tears made from stupid decisions.

_What am I doing?_

I should move, I know I should. He's too close, suffocating my thoughts, the expression on his face familiar, stirring something inside of me that flashes in warning-red.

Tears continue to cloud my vision, but not enough that I can't see his features are different, wrong—he's not the boy I want.

His eyes are sky grey and not canopy green. His hair is longer, the wrong hint of fair. His smile doesn't lift at one side, setting my world alight.

It's not my love for Jasper that rips me open day after day.

His thumb sweeps across my skin softly, all without that spark, that all important flutter that makes me crazy._  
_

I feel wetness ghost down my cheeks, remembrance and realization chilling me to the bone.

I have no love for this boy at all.

And yet, part of me can't help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss him, kiss someone who isn't Edward, break that bond.

Jasper is nice, lightweight cotton and kite-high smiles. There's no darkness. No crazy. No all encompassing need that makes my pulse try to push itself up and out of my skin.

This boy would never have the potential to break my heart.

His hands are on my arms, his hold gentle, my body trembling as I blink. "Bella..." he whispers.

My name suddenly feels dirty, his mouth even closer, my inhale held. I think he's going to speak again, say something else, but remaining distance diminishes and his lips are on mine, the prospect of words dissipating with the press of his mouth.

Surprise races through me at the speed of light, his kiss soft and slow—foreign—like wilted passion and the death of the sun.

I don't move, don't kiss him back, eyes open and lashes stock-still.

His breath washes over my mouth as he pulls back just enough to push forward again, a little harder this time, his palm now cupping the side of my neck: I'm ice, his thumb brushing the line of my jaw as he tries to get me to melt.

I think about letting my lashes fall shut, close myself off from everything other than the feel of his kiss, the way his fingers curl around the edge of my waist, the moan I hear and feel vibrate against my lips—question if this is what it felt like for Edward to kiss the girls who came before me.

Or, unbeknownst to me, the one who also maybe came after.

It's here I feel the pressure of my ring on my left hand as I grip the front of Jasper's jacket, my response taken for something else, something wrong as he brushes his tongue to mine, trying to get closer.

Self-disgust coats my thoughts and taints my blood, that sob releasing now as I rip my mouth away far too late.

My eyes sting and my skin crawls, pinpricks of guilt that I want to scrub away until I bleed; until the poison seeps out and I feel like I'll be able to breathe again without wanting to stop.

"I'm sorry, I can't," I choke out, hating the sound of my voice—hating the red of his mouth, his lips slightly swollen because of mine.

This feeling is more than guilt, it's a cloying thickness that spreads through my insides and disbands like the birth of a new tree, branches reaching sky high towards the sun, in danger of catching fire.

He runs his hands through his hair, his swallow thick. "I shouldn't have..." he says, trailing off. But he doesn't apologise, and I don't expect him to.

I meet his gaze, that look still present in his eyes as tears continue to coat my cheeks—I need to kill it, smother it with conviction. "I'm in love with Edward," I say slowly, surely. "I'll always be in love with Edward."

He looks at me for a long moment: rise and fall, rise and all. "Even if he no longer wants you?" he questions.

I take a step to the side, feeling my face crumple. "Yes," I assure him. "Even then."

He turns his focus to the hallway, brows furrowing, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. "I didn't say that to hurt you," he says lowly, the first shown sign of guilt—mine bubbles under the surface, destroying everything in its path, a fiery orange heat that races through my veins like lava.

"I know," I tell him, hollowed out and filled with an empty kind of sadness that claws at me from the inside.

I watch the way his chest expands with his breath, fading away and caving in. "If you were mine, I wouldn't treat you the way he does."

That ache spreads, blooms with a flourish of freshly painted words as I attempt to wash away the dampness on my cheeks with palms that feel foreign against my skin.

"It's not that simple," I tell him, feeling that sickness resurface. "I'm hurting him."

He shakes his head, maybe the first time I've seen him angry. "That's no excuse," he says, resting his hands on my shoulders—it makes my skin itch and I want him _off, off, off_. His gaze drifts between my eyes, searching and searching, and then, "You could come with me, back to California."

Shock registers, disbelief ignited, a flurry of sparks through the bloodstream. "You don't even know me," I insist.

"I know enough," he answers, silvery-blue persuaders watching me closely.

Hopeful to my denial and, "You don't," I counter softly.

"And you think you know Edward?" he presses, setting my insecurities alight. "How well can we ever really know the people in our lives, Bella?"

Shaky truths and a desperation to be right, to _want_ _to_, force words from my lips. "I've been in love with him for ten years. You learn things. They don't just disappear," I say, feeling the heartbreak in each and every second that passes where he says nothing in return.

He licks his lips. "I'm leaving in three days. Think about it."

I shake my head sadly. "There's nothing to think about."

"I care about you," he professes, bringing a new round of tears to my eyes.

He looks at me in ways I used to adore, and maybe still do, but not from him. Never from him.

My eyes are sore: shuddering breaths and stone grips. "I can't be what you want me to be." I wrap my hands around his wrists and pull him away, leaving his arms by his sides. "I can't do this," I choke out, ashamed and regretful, unable to carry any more of this guilt. "I'm sorry."

My thoughts are a cloud, fuzzy and wool-like, obscuring rationality. I feel numb; exhausted limbs and a secondhand heart. He expresses hurt and I drown in sounds that crash inside my chest. "I'm sorry," I say again before walking away, removing myself from a situation that adheres to me like burnt sugar.

I want to erase the last five minutes from my mistakes; erase the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his disappointment.

Tears streak down my cheeks, a never ending river of hopes dashed and dirty secrets. I feel so lost, sick to my stomach and in shoes too high. I feel like a child, unsure of the world and the bright colours that decorate it—I feel like my heart careens itself through my ribs and tries to push its way through my flesh at the sight of Edward walking towards me from the opposite end of the hallway.

He looks surprised to see me, his eyes darting back and behind, suit jacket lost and eyes suspicious. I don't turn to see what he sees; don't turn to see if Jasper has followed me, not ready for the events that are sure to ensue.

We've both come to a standstill, chess pieces on a board, King to his Queen, evaluating our next moves.

My initial reaction is to retreat, retreat, retreat, but I have nowhere to go and everything to lose. Edward seems to sense this, step taken to the thump of my fear. His gaze is assessing, then frozen as he abruptly stops moving again. And this time... this time_ I know_. I know who he sees behind me and what he's thinking; know that I'm a coward and can't face this.

His hands clench into fists and I start moving again, reaching for the nearest door, handle gripped and swinging shut. But I'm not quick enough to click the lock into place, pressure more than I can fight, defeat palpable in the muffled sounds that leave my mouth as I press my lips to my shoulder, wanting so much to rewind clocks and disappear with a snap of heels.

I turn to the sink and turn on the faucet, watching the water circle the drain as I uselessly attempt to wash my mouth clean of foreign kisses, door slammed and locked, reverberating inside my chest.

I don't want to look, don't want to speak. But choice is a gift I don't deserve. "What were you doing with him?" he asks, his voice loud—a demand.

I push the hair from my face and meet his eyes in the mirror, hard expressions reflected back at me; I can barely stand it, the red rims and green dread.

"Nothing."

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouts. "What was that?"

He looks as sick as I feel, the sight tearing at my resolve with punishing fingertips. "He kissed me," I say, my words coming out in a quiet rush, confession built from fear and unadulterated panic.

My heart is racing, pulse free-falling, eyes locked on his; too scared to move, to blink, to watch him splinter. I'm holding my breath and squeezing my fingers so, so tight around the edge of the sink, hating myself as I worry and wait, his reaction a stack of cards that could tumble at any second.

His resulting silence is stony, the kind that sits on my chest and bruises my skin, pushing and pushing until bones snap.

I watch as he tries to keep his mask firmly in place, but it's slipping, showing me what lies beneath. And for once, I don't want to see the cracks that are forming. I want to frame his cheeks and tell his lips sorry, apologise with touches pushed straight from my heart, whisper and promise to the blood that flows to his own beat; assure him there is no one else for me, and that I'm sorry that this happened, and that he's hurting.

That it meant nothing.

_Nothing._

"Did you ask him to?" he questions, swallowing hard.

I take a deep breath, truth filled exhales and unblinking lids. "No."

"Did you want him to?" he wonders.

I pause, not sure how to answer, indecision tainting my blood. "I don't know," I say hesitantly.

"How can you not know?" he questions angrily. "You either did or you didn't."

"I was upset," I say weakly, stomach churning, his pain mine.

His smile is bitter, jaw clenched as he rips his eyes from mine. "You were upset," he repeats, spitting out the words.

"You were _cruel_," I say hoarsely, and then, "He asked me to go back to California with him."

This grabs his attention, steely grips and fire, fire, fire as his knuckles meet the door, his anger dancing flames that ruin. "You're not fucking going anywhere with him."

I'm burning, specks of ash that spiral and drift. "No," I agree.

He's nothing but harsh breaths and silent words for a moment before, "Why are you telling me this?"

His voice is quieter this time, like trying to hear pins drop in the dark.

"I don't want to keep any more secrets," I answer, knowing hiding something like this from him would eat away at us, the beak of a bird to something not quite dead, its flesh still warm, heart still fluttering.

His chest expands with his breath, sucking the air from the room, his reply sharp, direct, the tip of an iceberg that destroys everything in its path within mere seconds. "You're leaving me. What difference would it make?"

My whole body aches as I taste his words, absorb their meaning, feel them seep through my pores and taint my insides. I hate the way they sound and make me feel; hate the way he's looking at me in this very moment.

A stranger.

Someone who isn't his.

"You could come with me," I say, my voice defeated, my words a plea. It's everything I want and everything he doesn't.

"And you could stay," he retaliates, mask slipping further; first row seat to the anguish that lives inside him.

Laughter bubbles up from the party gathered downstairs, a painful contradiction to the silence that shifts between us, shards of broken glass that splinter from the ground upon contact.

The sound gains his attention, gaze briefly flitting sideways to the door before locking back on mine, his jaw tense. His eyes pin me in place and I have to stop myself from asking him if he remembers what that feels like—_laughter_—remembers what that burst of happiness feels like with _me._

My breath is shaky as I inhale deeply, pulling for courage and forgiveness. "I only want what's best for us."

His expression fills with a saddened tinged fury, a dull shade of red that has become faded from the heat of the sun. "And what,_ I don't?"_ he grits out, spitting fire and smouldering hurt.

I shake my head slowly, lashes blinking shut against the flames. "Staying here will kill the good that we have left," I whisper, wishing and wanting my admission to be stronger.

I can feel the tears burning at the back of my eyes, lids squeezing together tightly in response, refusing them the escape they so desperately crave, but don't deserve.

"No," I hear him say after a moment, his tone thick as he dismisses my statement. "You're doing a pretty good job of that all on your own."

This sound leaves my throat as I Iook at him, one that screams of the pain that crushes my resolve not to fall apart in this house, among all these people that think they know me, but don't.

And never will.

"That's so unfair," I say through my tears, watching his lashes blink quickly as he turns his whole face from mine, trying to hide.

My voice is weak, a murmur in my veins as I briefly wonder if this is what it feels like just before your heart finally stops beating, this all-consuming, physical ache that blossoms in deep purples, like a bruise.

His palm swipes over his eyes and down his face, his back to the wall as he refuses to look at me. "Yeah, well, so are your decisions."

He's being cruel on purpose, reacting to the news of a kiss that was nice, but nowhere near good enough.

I know what perfection feels like, and nothing Jasper can give me will ever be it.

My lashes feel sticky, my tongue heavy, cheeks warm and tight with salt licked wounds. "You want me to stay, be unhappy, is that what you're trying to tell me?" I say, pushing him back unfairly.

His jaw is tight, the muscles that reside along the bone ticking, the soundless timings of a bomb. He's frustration in a perfectly pressed suit, shirt unbuttoned at the collar—I want to press my lips to his throat, take his pain, and beg him to forgive me.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he says, his voice gravel, the sensation of its sound grit-between-your-teeth anger as it rubs across my skin.

But I don't know it. I feel like I don't know anything anymore.

"Well, that's what it sounds like," I accuse, hastily wiping my cheeks.

Every part of me screams to get out of this house, distance myself from everyone in it, even the boy who is standing opposite, blocking the doorway, the very same one who has my heart shackled to his.

It's impossible to look at him and not remember everything that we've been through—the good, the bad, the hazy in between—our future still unsure as my beat stutters out an, _especially him_.

It's almost as if he can sense this, his eyes drifting back to my form as he watches me carefully, my indecision written plainly across my face in bright colours that rapidly switch to his favourite.

I shift under his gaze, unconsciously looking to the door beside his leg, the handle, the temptation, the risk, the gold, gold, gold.

It cries for my hand and I only realise my mistake after I've made it.

His eyes flash, storms brewing, and I'm too, too late.

He pushes himself off the wall just as I take a step back, pulling away as he tries to reel me in, hooked and torn. He has me trapped, and I'm floundering, escape no longer an option, his movements sure and steady.

My heart thunders, pulse skyrockets, reaching for stars that are nonexistent in this dark place.

He pauses in front of me, too close for me to see his face as he tilts his mouth to my temple, lips feather soft as they brush lightly against my skin, attempting to kill me with his touch, his soft side, his warmth.

He doesn't touch me anywhere else, his breathing the soundtrack to my own, harsh and stuck inside my chest, strings plucked and vibrating.

His mouth shifts, lips parting with his intention to speak, ready to brand my skin with words I know are going to hurt. I swallow against the lump in my throat, wishing he would choose to say nothing instead, my own tongue lifting as I think about asking him, begging, blocking his airway with my palm.

But I know all too well that wishes are made to be extinguished, bright flames dulled to furling smoke.

And this one is no exception.

"Do you remember your twenty-first birthday?" he wonders, his start, my finish as I close my eyes, memories exploding like fireworks behind my lids. "My parents had just bought us the house, and you were so happy, full of smiles and kisses."

I see it all so clearly, treasures chests opened, contents glinting in the early evening light. "Edward, stop it, please," I plead, my voice a forgotten whisper.

It feels like I'm drowning, but he doesn't listen—he's somewhere else right now, wrapped up in happier times.

"I remember that night, in our bed, as you laid breathless beneath me—pink everywhere—I remember thinking I was the luckiest man in the world, that I got to keep you, that you were mine. I brushed my hand down your chest and watched your expression change, turn serious as you gazed up at me with those eyes that fucking ruin..." He trails off, taking a moment that is nowhere near long enough to calm the race of my pulse, the speed of my heartbreak. "You pressed your fingertips to my cheek and told me I was your home... I thought my heart was going to fucking explode right inside my chest." He takes a deep breath and I feel I'll never be able to take one again, his admission sending shockwaves through my body, prickling my skin, leaving me speechless. "You said it didn't matter where we were, or what we were doing, as long as we had each other."

I press my lips together, trying to lock the sounds that want to escape from my mouth, pain and this crazy kind of love that wants to detach itself from my body—I'm not sure I can withstand anything more it has to give.

I want him to stop, to be finished, but deep down, where my stomach twists around the pieces of my broken heart, I know he won't—know he_ hasn't_.

His hand finds mine, fingers just barely brushing at our sides as he asks, "When did that change?"

He kissed me everywhere that night—not just at my mouth—making me fall apart for a second time. I remember falling asleep in my favourite position, tangled up in him, his arms holding me so close while I counted how many times his heart beat a minute, wondering if our numbers matched.

He turns his face further into mine, the pressure of his mouth a little more than a whisper as he brushes his lips over my skin, a silent urge to answer.

"It feels like I can't breathe," I rasp, voice cracking like the spine of a book.

My throat is thick with tears and my eyes burn, hands desperate as they cling to his shirt. I want to hold him to me for as long as he'll let me, take comfort where I don't deserve it, but heartbreak is an unwanted friend and I know any time he'll allow will never be enough.

His palms grip my hips, finally touching me somewhere else, too, torn between pushing me away and keeping me right where I am. I hear him swallow, hear how it sounds just like my own strangled attempts—I put that there, made it happen, made us match.

"Now you know what it feels like when your wife tells you she's kissed another man," he says in return.

His voice is cold, harsh, full of spikes that imprint themselves all over my face and arms and chest. I shiver, ache, fingers holding tighter as guilt that is tar-thick cloys to every part of me.

"It was nothing," I whisper, pleading eyes hidden against the cotton of his shirt.

I feel the brush of his teeth, another form of punishment. "Not to me," he answers, his fists hitting the wall either side of my head, movement abrupt, making me flinch. Then, "I'm going to kill him."

My eyelids sink shut with his words, my heart thumping, voice stronger. "No, you're not. You're going to do nothing."

He laughs bitterly, and my head turns, meeting his darkened gaze, his eyes hard and honest in their anger. "You expect me to go back downstairs and pretend everything is fine, even after I know he's touched you?"

"Yes," I answer, not as confident this time.

"I can't. You don't understand," he dismisses.

This makes me want to laugh, the sound getting caught in my throat feeling more like a sob. "I do. I _do _understand, because I feel sick inside every time I see that woman anywhere near you."

He stills—I don't even have to give _her_ a name. "It's not the same," he insists, watching me carefully.

"No, it's worse," I accuse, my turn to dismiss him.

"I haven't kissed her."

"Would you tell me if you had?" I ask, feeling something pinch inside my chest, beneath cages made of bone and flesh that prickles, sensing a lie.

He's silent, that sick feeling deep down inside getting worse, my eyes wanting to leave his face, protect myself.

_I'm a hypocrite._

"I swear to you I haven't," he answers, exhaling heavily, nose brushing mine as I turn my head a little more.

My chest constricts, relief and fear—that he's lying—pushing against my ribs.

"She's not the threat here," he continues, hands moving from the wall, back to my waist as he senses his moment, changing tactics so quickly, uncomfortable with the spotlight anywhere near him. "Did he kiss you here?" he asks, pressing the pad of his thumb against my cheek, his breath warm on the other before taking a step back to focus on my reaction.

My throat is tight, my vision blurry as I find my voice and tell him, "Don't do this."

"What about here?" he questions, moving his touch to my jaw, watching on as I shake my head in the negative. He deadbolts his eyes on mine just as his thumb strokes along my bottom lip, pressure getting harder as my tears continue to fall. "Here?" he guesses, knowing he's right.

My fingers curl around his wrist, my strength no match for his. "Stop," I tell him, trying to push his hand away.

"Did you kiss him back?" he wonders, ignoring my attempt completely as he pins me in place with his gaze. His eyes are hard again, his anger evident, but I see the pain that lingers in the green.

"No," I say quietly, pushing the word out from between trembling lips.

He swallows thickly, trying another tactic. "Did you like it?"

I'm too caught up in expressions that tear me wide open, stitches unplucked and heart beating a rhythm it doesn't understand—yet somehow, knows so well—to realise the full weight of my silence.

"Did you like it?" he roars.

My eyes flutter shut, skin prickling as his voice chills me inside and out, a winding river of snowy blue.

"No, you don't get to hide this time," he chokes out, his hand moving to grasp my chin. "Open your eyes and tell me the truth."

My lashes part, but what I see staring back at me makes me doubt my decision—under the strain of his agonised stare, I want to keep my eyes closed forever.

"He isn't you," I say, watery truths and broken assurances. My heart physically hurts, the weight of his focus and the touch of his skin tugging at my thumping muscle from all sides. "He'll never be you, so no, I didn't like it."

His eyes become glassy, his exhale hitting my mouth as his lips part. "You're mine," he says in a strong whisper, ownership a flurry of goose bumps that detonate across my skin. "You've always been mine." He kisses my right cheek, over my tears, splitting me open with sweetness that kills. His palm slides to the side of my neck, his fingertips grazing my heart. "And now you're going to leave me behind."

His words pierce themselves through my chest and I know I'll carry them with me forever. It's at this moment my resolve also crumbles, falls to nothing like ash, colouring the sky in monotone sadness.

"If you ask me to stay..." I start, listening to his breathing change, his cheeks wet as my hands rise to his face, "if you do it, I will. I'll stay because you asked me to... because I _love _you," I stress, tasting my tears as they coat my lips, _his_ love and _mine_: our connecting pain. "I'll become one of those dutiful wives you see but don't hear and hope that hate isn't the strongest emotion we'll ever share."

He trembles and I shake, two hearts cracking wide open. His face crumples as my words shift between us, but I don't attempt to take them back. I need him to see that wanting to leave has nothing to do with no longer loving him—wanting him—but everything to do with wanting to_ keep_ him.

I wipe away his tears, look up into his eyes, his face full of a torn emotion that makes me doubt everything I thought I knew. It hurts to look at him like this, his lashes wet and jaw tight, his anger and pain prominent in his green.

The awareness that I've once again caused this reaction is not lost on me, the guilt and heartache adhering to my insides with the prick of a thousand pins my deserved form of punishment.

If I thought my offer to stay would make him happy, I was so, so wrong. If anything, it's made him feel guilty for wanting it, angry that I'd suggest it, conflicted because, only days before—and maybe worded a different way—he would have taken it.

_He asked me then_, I think as I push his hair from his forehead, heart caving in, _so why not now?_

His lips part and my body tenses as I anticipate his words: cruel, bitter, indifferent. Or worse—accepting. But nothing comes, his silent appraisal continuing, picking me apart piece by piece, snapshots hidden away to gather dust.

My palms are on his cheeks as he leans forward to place a kiss at the edge of my mouth, my eyelids falling shut on impact, closing myself off to everything but the sensation of his touch and the surge of my pulse.

I want to cry and plead... beg him for things I'm not sure make sense—that I'm not sure are a possibility.

He doesn't move, and neither do I, content to be held captive in this web of silver-spun crossfire that tethers us at our wrists and threads between our inner ticks.

I make a sound, unconscious in its escape, the press of his lips momentarily becoming harder until his mouth is no longer there at all, leaving me flushed on the surface but frostbitten from the inside.

His thumb runs softly over my left cheek, his temple against my right, my own hands clutching his belt loops now as I stop myself from asking him to hold me tighter—hold me at all.

His stubble scratches against my skin as he glides his lips to my ear, the movement of his thumb easing, my fingers still as they anchor me to him.

"I can't even kiss you properly, on your mouth," he says in a broken whisper, tearing my insides to bleeding confetti. "Knowing he has... You're my wife, and I can't show you... It makes me sick..."

He trails off, taking me with him, a blank canvas left in the wake of his words.

"I'm so, so sorry," I cry, my voice catching, drowning in the sea of my own heartbreak.

He makes a noise and I follow, my arms tight around his neck as I press my mouth to the side of his face, over and over, whispering promises that make the tears fall faster, harder, unconscious murmurings of the heart that brand his jaw and cheeks; his lashes and nose, sketching him in my damaging love.

I feel his fingers thread through mine, lifting my palm flat to his chest, to a familiar location and intimate beat. His hand covers my touch, holding me to him, a slow fire burn. "Stop it from hurting," he half demands, half begs.

Torment radiates through me, distress on a wave of red acid that eats away at my flesh. I wish and want and send prayers by silent lips and repetitive thought as I pull in a shaky breath and tell him the only thing I can think to say other than _sorry_—the heart stitcher and pain maker. "I love you."

His fingers tangle and tighten in my hair. "Again."

"I love you," I repeat, the feeling swallowing me whole.

His exhale is slow, coming from deep inside his chest, the sensation washing goose bumps over my neck, over my skin. He kisses my bare shoulder, lips lingering, tempting brushstrokes and fires teased. "I want to count and know each and every one of these," he tells me quietly, rubbing his lips over the smaller than small pebbles that sweep forward on the tide of his words.

My fingers curl into his chest, lashes falling shut, wanting more of everything: his touch, his love, his late night confessions. I want to crawl inside him and never leave, find home in an echoey space with a steady-to-fast beat.

"I just want to be enough," I whisper, feeling my admission deep in my bones.

He traces the edge of my collarbone with his closed mouth, his hands on my waist, grip tight as he brings his lips back to my shoulder, pausing while he gifts another kiss. "I need to go. Emmett needs me," he says into my skin.

Dismay and disappointment flare to the surface, pushing their way from the darkness to dance in the light. "_I_ need you," I cry.

He makes a noise, matching my sounds. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"What about the next day?" I ask, my throat tight, fear a fire tipped query, sending panicked sparks through my veins to my heart. "Or the next? What about the following week, or the following month? Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries... What about those?"

He lifts his head just a little, cheek to my cheek, request to my question, his voice carrying a sharp edged sadness, guilt dripping blades and shaky tones as he says, "Save me a dance."

It's an answer that makes me think my bones are cracking, splintering to painful needles that cause my whole body to ache, silent screams trapped beneath skin.

Despite his previous words, he doesn't make a move to leave, match lit but not extinguished, one arm wrapped tightly around my back, opposing palm cupped around my neck.

He's giving me my dance whether he realises it or not—whether our feet don't move and the only music is that of the happy voices that filter up through floorboards and a makeshift ceiling.

He adores me with nothingness and touch, and I love him with accelerated beats and silent tears.

He whispers words too low for me to hear against my cheek, his lips vibrating strings and my heart a drum.

He stays with me for what feels like two songs, and then he's gone, door closing quietly behind him, the click of an empty barrel that echoes on a wave.

I'm left dancing on my own, clutching my hand to my chest, attempting to hold on to all the broken pieces of my heart until tomorrow—until Christmas, birthdays and maybe anniversaries.

Until courage is a roar and not a muted whimper.

Until we both lower our guns—unarmed.

* * *

**Hi, lovelies. **

**Remember that one time I said I wouldn't start another story until this one was finished? **

**Yeah, me too.**

**I'm a liar apparently.**

**The lovely iambeagle and I have started writing a collab together under the penname VampiresHavebeagles. **

**It's all EPOV. Angst. Titled: 'Stubborn Love'. You can find it under my favourites.**

**We'd love to see you there. :]**

**Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.**

**Thank you so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


	19. Tethered  Part One

**Hey everyone! I'm so, so sorry for the long wait between updates. **

**Thank you for being as patient as always. I really appreciate it.**

**We're nearing the end of this story now. There will be one more chapter to follow. This is part one; part two will post sometime midweek.**

**The biggest thanks to Susan for being my beta and fixing my mistakes.**

**A huge thank you to Jen and Judy for pre-reading and holding my hand.**

**And last, but not least, thank you to Meg for all her help and being the best srupy ever.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. **

* * *

Bella

The mind is a jigsaw, always connecting one thing with another, sewing together memories with thread made for two.

It's how I associate the colours of spring with Edward's eyes, and how the sound of rain always reminds me of our history: washed out but still glistening with every tear shed.

I stare out at something blue, reminded of a day filled with sun freckles and underwater kisses, of _you taste like salt,_ and smiling pleas of _stop, people can see._

My tortured heart is led by the hand, still in love with that place, caught up in brushing lips of _I don't care,_ and warnings of _if you run, I'm only going to chase you._

I did run that day, and he did chase, but if I were to look behind me now, to the grains of sand my fingers itch to touch, desperate to search for his presence, I'd find nothing but passing time and footsteps that remain unfollowed.

My head gives way to ghosts, to accelerated beats and shivers up my spine, to war, waging and waging, a never ending battle between remembering and forgetting.

I close my eyes and try to stop thinking, dig out the weeds and ignore the wilt of petals. But there are roots around my ribcage, tethering me to the past, binding memories that can't be pulled: my choice sinks, anchored to the ocean floor—a side defeated.

Seattle remains unchanged while my heart beats a little different—_too fast, too slow_—brake wires cut as it races towards breaking.

This city was our life for a while, home to an apartment with tangled sheets and a shared bed; to hands clutching hair and breathless words that flushed cheeks and turned the whole world pink.

I like the noises here, these busy streets and rumbling engines; the sea of distant faces and yellow taxi cabs that trail the pavement.

I like the smell of saltwater and car fumes, the buildings that reach towards the clouds; the glass that reflects nothing but white; the ocean that shimmers in tones of royal blue.

It feels like home, especially with Edward here; two hearts secured within city limits.

There is a wedding here today, birthplace to the bride, sunshine-smile mementos and a riot of clashing wings; butterflies trapped within a fluttering pulse.

My dress will be peach, and not white, but I don't think my heart has received the message.

Its beats are made of lightning, bolts of nervous energy that streak through my veins, remembering vows born from my own lips and assurances that splash through puddles of red.

It knows Edward, and me—green eyes and dancing beneath a grey cloud—accelerates over a sparkling jewel and a soft kiss.

It holds our own day within its ruby trinket, breathing life into its lungs as I'm transported somewhere different, vision borrowed with the tickle of palms and words bathed in a whisper.

And for a moment, nothing hurts, wrapped inside the safety of this memory.

_I don't want to leave._

I could close my eyes and pretend this new and fractured version of myself is a trick; a dazzle of cards and king of spades, shoveling earth into an empty mouth and trapping thoughts beneath a head of stone.

I could breathe and not choke, and convince myself these tiny little fragments that rattle inside a graveyard of bones are intentional; a mosaic of dreams kept alive and not buried beneath a wilting flower.

But belief is found in touch, in sight—in the press of palms and pebble of skin—in the blink of lashes and kaleidoscope of colour. And all I can see is liquid blue and towering grey.

No spring, no scotch, no hand-held pink.

No Edward.

He's beside his brother, bestowing words of encouragement; ensuring him with speeches that drip like poison from his tongue.

I wonder if he's hurting right now; if his throat is tight, his spiel stuck, words a choking punishment.

I wonder if he's thinking of me like I am him... If we're both standing inside the same memory... If he sees my face and senses the dictation he has over my heart.

I wonder if he likes my expression: the panic set within wide eyes and a heart laid bare.

Or am I forgotten. Is he staring at someone else, seeing the potential in another pair of brown eyes; ring removed and jilted by forever.

Will his fingers have a conversation with someone else's skin; atlas hands that map out endless possibilities despite his previous assurances of_ she's nothing_ and_ I love you._

He carries on running: scared, spiteful—in pain.

And I carry on letting him: fear-lit, stupid—frozen.

I blink back my tears and try not to sink as I focus on the dispersion of clouds and a sunshine blessing; as I try to hold on to hope and the pitter-patter beat that dances at my wrists.

In a matter of hours, ties will be formed; promises sealed with a kiss of lips where mine may tremble, cord cut and ends frayed. Irreparable.

I will wear the face with the smile, and try to ignore the tightrope of feeling that threatens to push me off balance; try to avoid the eyes I know will be watching... the pair that decides just how far I'll fall.

I wonder if_ his_ pain is as consuming as _mine._

I wonder if he's still talking and talking; I wonder if Emmett believes him.

I wonder if he believes _himself._

He's a master at pretense, worry lines hidden behind a mask of green-eyed indifference, his silence a loaded weapon.

Until now.

Now there are moving lips and _open fire, _tactics changed and ammunition switched.

I stopped talking; stopped calling out for someone who forgot to answer. But something has changed, strings plucked and notes a travelling vibration. He's shouting back. Or maybe he has for a while. Maybe his words have been tucked behind my ears this entire time.

He makes me feel alone.

He makes me feel lost.

He makes me feel like my heart is brand new.

I feel it all the time now, feel its each and every break, awareness a cruel form of crimson bleeds and ruptured stained glass.

It screams of his kisses, his raw touch, walls engraved with his intended words, its beats a rhythmic reminder of questions still unanswered and thoughts still unsaid.

I know that lives can change, moods and feelings flipped with a switch, but I'm not ready for this glow to leave. Because where there is suffering, there is also comfort, and when present, those moments eclipse the darkness and shine so bright.

I can't accept that we're over... I don't _want _to accept it. I want this warmth to stay where I can still feel its residency inside my chest; where I can taste its spice and watch its growth through the eyes of its maker.

I don't want to share its heat, or pass the flame to someone else... I don't want another girl to experience the intensity of its burn or worry over its flicker.

My palms are needy, my heart a cage—I want to keep it mine, keep it always.

He makes me feel like lullabies and goodnight.

He makes me feel safe; my never-leave-me blue sky and always-stay sun.

He makes me_ feel._

And how do you say goodbye to that person... How do you ignore the pleading murmurs carried within a crimson maze; the sound of cracking bones and music that splinters?

How do you ignore_ love_?

I send my questions to the wind, thoughts expelled like shooting stars as I wait for them to spark: explosions of green and bronze and heart-blood red.

I stare out at blue, at a gold rising, and wait for answers that I know won't come.

Not until he's close enough to touch.

Not until he's holding my heart in the palm of his hand, dictating the placement of each and every crack.

XXX

I often wonder if the people around us ever truly take notice of our expressions.

Their eyes may pass over our features, occasionally lingering like the stubborn clouds marring a perfect day, but do they ever really _see_?

Because right now it feels like I'm screaming inside, and no one can hear me, no one is watching.

Their attention is focused solely on the bride, exactly where it should be; on beauty personified and a glow that can only be captured on a day like today.

Rosalie Hale is sunray perfect. She radiates happiness, her cheeks flushed with nervous excitement, blue eyes gleaming like ocean crystals.

Her smile is soft, a keeper of secrets, her breaths deep, searching for calm: she is a coma of dreams that bring forth my own nightmares.

I feel awkward and out of place, unnecessarily sketched inside the corner of a drawing as I stand inside this small circle of women who speak in hushed tones and excited whispers.

Their smiles threaten to disarm the mask of control I cling to with each staccato beat of my heart, its thread thinning with each new look bestowed to a girl who is breaking under the weight of too many painful reminders, chest tight and breaths a forgotten prospect as I think about the green-eyed boy who made my own dreams a possibility.

The atmosphere in this room taints my blood and gifts my tongue a veil; wedding jitters that tremble through bone and nerves that affect speech.

Expectancy is a cloying layer in a too bright space, my lungs made of glass, my heart a vibration of repetition.

I'm scared that if I open my mouth, my screams will no longer be silent.

"What time is it?" Rose asks softly, glancing at her mother whose adoration is a voice all without words, its tenor loud, its hue silvery white.

It shines, and almost hurts to look at,_ this love_, the kind of special that rivals the lone star in an otherwise empty sky.

It makes me wish my own mother were here so much I almost think I'll stop breathing.

This soft-centered, jagged-edged reminder resurfaces forgotten guilt that pierces flesh and squeezes lungs; a tangled noose and form of suffocation without the addition of palms.

I took this moment away from myself the day I agreed to marry Edward, constellations experienced a different way as we lay side by side on grass that still held rain.

We were young. We were carefree. We were _happy._

We told no one; fingers to lips and a sparkle hidden beneath drooping lashes. The secret became a rising bubble that never quite reached the surface; voice boxes zipped closed and sounds mislaid with a pull of metal teeth.

I don't regret it, my _yes, yes, yes _and truest words of _I do, _but that pinch of guilt has never quite gone away, an otherwise invisible tattoo that sometimes catches the light and glows ember red like a burn: like today, like now.

It rouses like morning—like a ghost—waking up sleepy aches and tired limbs; a sudden burst of too much feeling where _numb _used to reside on floors softened with dust.

I breathe slowly and stare at the stars, at a mother telling her daughter, "There are still twenty minutes yet, sweetheart. Take deep breaths."

She's encouragement and soothing spiels, straightening already perfect curls for a third time with light touches.

And I'm stupid, ashamed, the storm cloud that pledges rain in a sun-spun sky. But I think I'm drowning, heartache swallowed down, down, down, securing me to an agreement I want to take back with spinning hands and a constant tick of_ I'm sorry, I can't._

This is all too real, this quiet hum that cloaks my skin as my fingers curl and hands shake; as a faint smile spreads across an already happy face.

"I'm not nervous." Rosalie's reply is filled with so much assurance I can taste nothing but envy at the back of my throat.

My own confidence is a blur of unspeakable love and teardrop mementos as I press my lips together and try to ignore the resulting ache that blooms to life in an already flowering chest.

It is one breath at a time, one blink: anger, betrayal, calm and fear.

It's found as I slowly slip into dreams, folded in that place between wake and sleep, heavy limbed and weightless with dreams.

It's also knowing that at some point, Edward wanted to keep me.

He gave me a ring and promised me forever, sold his love with words that hit arrow-straight to a red middle; to the crux of my feelings for the boy with the crooked grin and open arms that have since become closed.

He stops, I start.

_He loves me, he loves me not._

The thought is impulsive, an evolving weed that reaches for the sun, its presence as unbearable as a cage of thorns: tissue scarred and palm to palm warfare.

And yet, I'm unable to think about anything else. Unable to stop.

I take a deep breath, a pushing weight against ribs that make my eyes want to close, doubt swept aside with a brief flicker of lashes as cobwebs clear.

_No._

I don't need to pluck petals to discern Edward's feelings for me. Not anymore. His love overwhelms; fevered skin and the retreat of shadows, pledges of _you're my girl_ and groans of _I told you everyday._

It turns his sounds to acid and his touch to flames, desperation eating away at us both until breaths grow ragged and pain becomes the tear-streaked cheeks of compromise.

His passion is alive, a flurry of vines that tether two aching hearts as one; his beat my echo and thorny words my careless palm.

But just like the fear that runs through my veins, coating red blood cells black, it's present in his, too, shrouding rationality in weeds—in regret—smothering the beauty beneath: maker to a falling winter in spring as blossom melts from above.

I know he's here, in this building, his presence a rush to the heart—his indecision a wound that weeps scarlet tears.

He's so close, heartstrings tugging for their other half, ends fraying in their hurry to form knots and keep him near.

I both need him and want him to stay away; a stitch of lips and a fading moon; the grapple of palms and a steely gaze.

I want his voice but not his words, his warmth but not his touch. I want to go back to the start and tell him to hold me, no matter what, even when I scream for him not to, because silence is just another lie and being here alone_ hurts_.

This room is filled with daylight and warmth not just from the sun, filling my veins with liquid gold that my body tries to reject in its cold distrust of what this day may bring.

Lashes flit and Esme catches my gaze, giving me a smile that is laden with meaning. But she doesn't attempt to approach me. Not yet. I know she will though. She's been staring too much, her attention too obvious, curiosity tattooed within her stare.

Her dress is expensive lilac, her hair silky caramel; she's a sugarcoated shell with a hidden center, her eyes giving away nothing other than the fact she's noticed me.

She must know by now, the troubles that don't seem to break, stretching like elastic between Edward and I.

I want to ask her if she's happy her son may no longer want me; ask her if someone has ever dimmed through her tears and screamed through the bars of her chest until her voice breaks from matching that very sound.

Her attention flitters, and I am once again forgotten, cradling questions with a quivering desperation; fear licked stamps pressed to envelopes devoid of an address.

I take a deep breath as voices die off, the room becoming quiet of whispers—for just a second, there is no sound, no excitement, no pain: there is simply this delicate bubble that shimmers and feels like it's about to burst.

I look around the room, the air speckled with dust. I want to float and soar and not care. I want these particles to take me with them.

The weight of seconds pass, shifting like the kind of hands that don't have fingers and the push of tide that refuses my escape.

I feel another loitering glance, another pair of eyes leaving their passage of time, their burn scarring my face.

I know who that fire belongs to, who has ignited that match, and don't want to look. But this effort to stay neutral is using up too much energy, its wavering flame of curiosity a distraction where I already have too many. So this time, I turn, and look: brown on brown and lashes made of the finest razors as her gaze cuts into my flesh.

Kate's expression is a grazing palm, nails bared as she carries on staring, her outward perception of_ soft_ and _roses _no match for the barbed wire that slices through too small tubes with her presence.

Our dresses may match, our blinks synchronised—a reflection that moves as I do—but our insides differ.

My walls are closing in while hers are stretching out wide, space big enough for two, enclosure covered in wallpaper I picked out, that I still want; that has begun to peel in my once happy home.

She is the bitter pill I can't swallow—the girl I tell myself I hate, but know I fully can't. Because how can I hate the person who has brought smiles to a mouth that, when pressed to mine, is both my poison and waking kiss; who, even if just for a moment, eases fears within a lost boy and offers him a place to go where nightmares can't follow?

Truth hovers just out of reach, but there's a reason Edward likes her company, her _soft and roses _not lost on him, either.

I watch as she tucks her hair behind her ears, my own hands stagnant down by my sides, my thoughts torn between a confused and sickening _thank you_ and a powerful and agonised need to_ hate_.

And I think_ that's _what I hate, the fact that I _can't _hate her with everything I have; that I can't place the blame at her feet and walk away in a different pair of shoes.

However hard I try, I can't disconnect the good she has gifted_ another_ from the pain she has caused _me_; can't halt the tight curl of my palms whenever she speaks my name, or the sharp twist of breath that becomes trapped inside my chest when she touches what is mine.

She reacts and smiles, her expression kind, a light sketch that leaves behind traces of lead in my system.

My mask is hanging by a thread: _too much, too much, too much._

I'm jealous, and scared, her attention making me want to get out of my own skin.

I don't smile back.

I don't live for her to like me; for these women to hold my hands and tell me how pretty I look with an unblemished form of admiration.

I'm here for the boy she's trying to take away from me while I remain muted, frozen, locked away behind layers of ice I'm desperate to break free from.

I want my heart to be red and not blue; I want to watch my fear melt away with brave lips and honest words... I don't want to be scared of the future anymore.

So my mouth doesn't move, and my heart beats too fast as I look away from matching eyes while a solitary smile begins to fade.

But perhaps I've been too hasty, because the scene I'm met with now is so much worse, splitting my chest wide open for all the colours of my envy to spill out into a room bathed in gold.

There are two mothers, one of blood, another assigned by pride as I stand opposite a girl who seals my silence and transitions my thoughts to suspicious misery.

Mrs. Hale stands to the side, a spectator who smiles instead of frowns; who is not hurting or feeling so very small.

She is my very opposite right now, cloaked in precious metals, watching as her daughter is gifted similar decorations—as she is trusted with a memory that I know is going to sparkle.

We all have our hiding places, somewhere we go to lose ourselves—I want to crawl into mine and erase this scene from my vision with a close of lids and pull of breath; tug and inhale until there is nothing left but a distant, indistinguishable flicker.

Esme has a box in her hands, her hold gentle, sentimentality turning her touch delicate. Her fingers lift and open treasure chests that are palm small as I bear witness to the familiar ache that takes up residence inside my chest; the one that pinches beneath bone after viewing a moment shared and love gained—the one that sparks with the hiss of realisation and sinks like ships with tokens I did not receive, all through fault of my own.

A necklace is cushioned against satin the shade of sapphires, its chain silver, its gem small and clear.

It is simple beauty for someone who already has enough.

My vision blurs, inhale shaky as I breathe through my nose and press my lips shut tight against this feeling that tears through me like a tornado of hurt, destroying everything in its path.

There are soft smiles and more adoration; watery gazes and kleenex pressed to palms.

Pale pink nails touch, hesitant yet wanting, reverent gazes and bright eyes while my mask continues to crack; whilst my hands suddenly feel so, so lonely.

They tremble along with my lips... and maybe I do want them to be held after all.

Rosalie's cheeks bloom, smile growing as whispered words are exchanged and cheeks are kissed, their hugs and affection my frozen beat and shivered bones.

I wonder if she's being told she's pretty... I wonder why I continue to lie to myself, assuring my shattered heart that it does not need that sweetness.

This feeling has never truly gone away, the one that wants Esme's approval. It falls and whispers like autumn, adapting with the scene, a sickness that isn't really a sickness at all.

It's simple; it's sadness. It still hurts.

My eyes continue to sting, and I want to cry, but I can't, not here, in a place where everything has to be locked up tight; where emotions are encased behind walls built with my very own hands.

"This was my mother's," Esme says lightly, her voice slipping through brick; cotton filled clouds and summer-sky blue as she lifts the necklace from the box, securing the clasp beneath golden hair with gentle hands. "And now your something borrowed."

Rosalie's slow exhale and choked up _thank you _fills me with shame, her laughter honest as she blinks up at the ceiling, ensuring her makeup stays perfect and her tears don't run.

It's not the first time this afternoon that I have to remind myself today is not about _me_, but about her, and Em: confetti celebrations that rain from above without the grey clouds.

I force myself to look away, my focus dropping to the cream carpet beneath my feet as I concentrate on keeping my breathing steady and my eyes dry.

I used to be so desperate for Edward's mother to like me; for her to show me an ounce of affection that wasn't born from negativity. But that need gradually started to burn out with the flicker of another flame, the word_ forever _that would part from alternate lips far more important to me in the end.

I was that young girl caught up in old love that felt brand new with the addition of a ring, eternally desperate to be good enough for someone who I always viewed as my better half.

He would calm me down when I became upset, assure me with promises that were too big to swear—even for him. But I would believe him, bound by the invisible chain that connected our dreams.

He would hold me in the dark and stroke my cheek at sunrise, making me feel safe, special, and above all, _needed._

But not anymore.

"Bella?"

Rosalie's voice filters through my thoughts, distancing me from the past and back into the present with a light squeeze to my hand.

Her contact shocks, her smile hesitant but true as I meet her eyes and take a deep breath. "Sorry, I was just thinking," I tell her quietly, finding my own smile.

She nods, but doesn't ask me to elaborate, for which I'm grateful. But then we both know she doesn't need to; my silence speaks for itself and she isn't stupid.

I pull my hand away, shifting the focus onto her as I ask, "How are you feeling?"

It's a benign question prompted by discomfort, but her smile is still there, only more natural this time, lips curving upwards with happiness that can't be contained.

"I think I'm a little nervous now, actually," she admits, smoothing her hands over her dress as her brows begin to furrow, cheeks flushed with the speed of her pulse and race of her heartbeat.

This is a side of her I haven't seen before, her easy confidence put on hold with the exchange of upcoming vows.

We've been in this room for hours, making our lips pinker and our eyes stand out; our hair shiny and nails perfect—she's been snowdrop serene the whole time.

But now her nerves have finally caught up, fraying her patience and testing her breaths as her hands refuse to stay still.

"It's the waiting," she says, glancing at the clock once more. "I just want to be out there."

She slides her palms over the material of her dress again, and remembering the anticipation and nerves I felt waiting outside a room alone, wishing I had someone there to distract me from my thoughts,_ I_ take _her _hand this time, halting her movements.

She gives me a long look, lashes stock-still in her surprise before accepting whatever _this_ _is _and exhaling slowly.

Her eyes close, fingers tightening around mine as she takes a moment to calm. We aren't friends, and I'm not sure if I fully trust her, but I can press pause on her building panic, and be who I'm supposed to be for her today, even if neither of us are entirely comfortable.

"The waiting is always the worst part," I agree, drawing her gaze back to my face with my assent.

Its meaning holds more significance to me than gifted comfort and misplaced understanding. It tears open old wounds that haven't had enough time to heal; that rest awhile in a heart with too many cracks.

It's a reminder of the state of my marriage; tongues locked and truths of all sizes left unsaid.

Rose looks and looks, her assessment seemingly final as she tells me, "You look really pretty today, Bella."

Her features are gentle, her words cushioned with sincerity as she gives me something neither of us could have anticipated.

My throat threatens to close, pulse soaring with sweetness from an unlikely source. "It's a pretty dress," I agree, untangling our hands with a soft shake of my head.

"It's more than the dress," she says, but my focus has already shifted, paused on the girl who wears its exact match.

Kate is deep in conversation with the other two women in the room, my emotions a tangle of ivy that wrap around my heart; a spiral of envy that flourishes with the surge of my own insecurities.

Unable to carry on looking, I revert my focus back to a white dress and thoughtful expression, my assurance true as I clear my throat and say, "Trust me when I say all eyes are going to be on you, Rose. You look beautiful."

Her stare lingers, and I begin to feel self-conscious,_ my _dress now smoothed with restless palms and unease that eats away at me from the outside, in.

"Maybe," she answers after a few seconds, her eyes carving trenches along my cheeks, digging and digging as she shapes routes and learns features. "But I know one pair that won't be."

My hands stop moving, boundaries formed as apprehension creeps into my system, shadows haunting my inner fall of intricate red with practised ease.

I wonder how much she knows... I wonder if Edward has confided in a new found sister; secrets shared with a stranger in both blood and name, his words confetti, his sounds made of air.

My pulse blusters at my heart to calm: _she doesn't know, she's just being kind, _it murmurs. But its sounds are made of my own thoughts—fears and hopes and desires—my lips known to lie, honesty not always truth.

My reasoning is shaken, hourglass twisted, notions shifting with the descent of sand.

She shakes her head at my silence. "He loves you," she decides.

She says this so easily, and with so much conviction, blue eyes like winter but not as cold.

I shovel snow and clear a pathway over my tongue as I tell her, "Yes." I say this slowly, _quietly_, scared of my own confessions as I find that thread of courage that leads me over floorboards that creak. "But sometimes love isn't enough; sometimes it's the thing that drives us apart."

"It doesn't have to," she responds immediately, her voice insistent, the love she carries inside her own heart soaring high and tainting all she hears.

"But there's nothing I can do to combat that." I pause, not sure why I'm choosing to say this to _her_. "Falling out of love is not something I can choose," I add. "It either happens or it doesn't. In my case, it hasn't, so I'm stuck with this tangible feeling that is out of my reach. And I want it, I don't want it to go away... more than anything I don't want it to go away."

She breathes out slowly as my words drop away, trickling down the back of my throat like water against glass.

"Bella, it won't if..." She starts, but doesn't get to finish.

We're interrupted, her lips stitched shut with the appearance of another, their presence the deadweight inside my chest and sticky-honey that courses through my veins.

Esme's smile is warm, her tone light when she asks to speak to me alone for a moment.

I immediately feel on edge, the sensation similar to waking up alone in the middle of the night with this awareness that doesn't have a name.

I can feel it though, its vibration a driving rhythm that carries its own beat, forcing my pulse to go faster and faster until there is nothing left but the sound of my racing heart.

It becomes all I can focus on, erasing logic with rapid blinks and a fistful of chalk as I convince myself of things that may not be true.

"Of course," Rosalie says softly, gifting me a fleeting look before heading in the direction of her friend.

Silence immediately settles over us like the cover of night, words reduced to stars that refuse to be parted with until the sun rises, stubborn silver chased away with the advance of gold.

There are no exchanged glances or words to ease the quiet as another box is opened and set aside.

There are, however, hands in my hair, comforting in a way that reminds me that they're not the ones I want.

"He doesn't talk to me anymore," she says suddenly, sadness enveloping her tone as she delivers the first part of her speech.

I look up, watching the scene through reflections, her fingers gentle like before as a hair-comb is slid amongst soft waves that are already pinned half up, half down.

My throat closes with her gift, her admission the lyrics of a song I can't get out of my head, repeat hit over and over.

Her words are not what I expected, surprise a scratching spindle that fills the background with noise, my pulse receding before rushing forward as I think back to endless phone calls that began with a mother's voice and diminished with a son's _good night._

I was sure Edward discussed our problems with his parents, his absence explained away with the need to talk to someone who wasn't _me._

"I'm sorry," I say thickly, maybe because, for just a moment, she looks about as lost as I feel.

Her hands leave my hair, her attention suddenly full as her eyes meet mine in the full-length mirror.

My skin prickles, my unease searching for safety it won't find beneath those dusted lids.

"I know you love him," she murmurs, her expression soft and smile sad, its appearance hinting to the tone of her next words. "But you also make him hurt. So much."

I feel everything inside of me crumble; soot and ash and flames that leave behind charcoal expressions.

My lungs squeeze, searching for breaths that don't remain, time a punishing existence and voice a bed of nails as my reply crawls up my throat.

"I know," I say weakly, powerless beneath this adhesive guilt.

"I can't help him," she breathes out while squeezing my hand. Her palm lingers, fingers tightening, offering me strength where I do not want it. "But maybe you can."

My eyes close; tears swallowed instead of released. "What do you mean?" I murmur, even though I think I know. My free palm forms a fist, half-crescents branded along its seams.

She says nothing for a moment, her other hand moving to frame my forearm, attempting soothing circles that evoke the opposite of their intention.

"You're smart and beautiful, and have a good heart," she responds, her voice gossamer light. "Which is why I think it's maybe best for you both if you end this now... before it gets any worse."

I bite the inside of my cheek, vision blurred with the weight of watered sadness. "Better for whom?" I whisper, holding back the sounds I can feel building inside my chest, climbing a trellis of stitches and a ladder of thorns.

Her steady features falter for a second, pity prominent in the pained and sympathetic expression she wears... the one I don't want anywhere near me.

"I know we've never been close, you and I," she says while continuing with her arm strokes and wary beginnings, "and I think there's mutual fault there."

I absorb her meaning, but say nothing, my eyes cutting across the room to rest on the colours of spring that linger beyond glass.

"There is nothing more important in this world to me than my children," she says, the lightness in her words vanishing with an unbreakable bond of love. "Their happiness is paramount... If you ever become a mother, Bella, you'll realise just how hard it is to stand by and watch when one of them is hurting."

I shake my head. "He's not a child anymore," I remind her, pulled back to our reflection with her statement, my anger blurred with a sudden flare of heat, its validation torn with her interference.

She gives me a steady look, lashes dark and unblinking. "No, but he'll always be_ my _child, regardless of his age."

I show my dislike of her response, arm shifting from her hold, hands lonely once more as I attempt to detach myself from this woman who wants to tear my heart right down its middle.

Seconds pass and my voice escapes with the shackles of fear wrapped tightly around its ankles. "Have you spoken to Edward about any of this?" I ask.

Her eyes leave mine, curiosity blooming as I turn to face her with a twist of feet, apprehension the question mark in my spine as I waver with the lingering taste of dread still present on my tongue, knowing the influence his parents have over his decisions.

Esme reaches forward before I can step away, her fingers tucking loose strands of hair back into place as she avoids meeting my eyes. "You're both still so young," she answers. "You have time to start again... start over," she says encouragingly.

Her expression is still sincere, still soft—she's saying all the right things. But my heart is disagreeable, her words toxic, responsible for an ache that has all the potential to flourish with a repeat recurrence.

"It's not that easy," I tell her, taking that much needed step back, feeling trapped inside this conversation where I have to watch, and listen—stuck like the bird inside my pulse that cries for its escape. "I know he can be cruel, and that my words can be careless, but I don't love him any less."

Her gaze returns to mine, her eyes not unkind, her smile still sad. "I know, sweetheart. But sometimes the things we think will harm us are actually the ones to heal."

I blink against my blurred vision and take a deep breath, reminding myself I can't crumble here.

"Esme?" Kate calls, hesitating a few paces away with my bouquet in her hands. "It's time to go take your seat," she says softly, glancing between the two of us before taking those last couple of steps forward to pass me green-stemmed, floral white.

I try to ignore her, focusing on Esme as she takes my free hand and kisses my cheek, telling me I look pretty, these actions now meaningless with the overwhelming ache her next words bring. "I just want you both to be happy, that's all."

She gives my fingers one last squeeze before following after another mother, failing to see that the reason my hands are now cupping a bouquet of flowers, empty of the hold they crave, is due to the very options she's suggesting.

If I lose Edward, shadows will fill an empty heart and smiles will drain from my lips along with the colour in the sky, leaving no opportunity for a rainbow at the end of a storm.

"Is everything okay?" Kate asks me, drawing me back to the present with her unwanted concern.

I force a smile onto my face, more for my benefit than hers, my soul splintering as the weight of this moment suspends inside my chest with a tick.

She's about to share a moment with my husband while I pretend my heart is not breaking; sunsets blurred to streaks of orange that gradually bleed to red.

I will wait, but not watch; become ignorant of the smile I know she'll wear and the one I hope Edward doesn't.

"It's fine," I say, my favourite lie and disguised affirmation, her acceptance not as quick as others', her gaze lingering where I wish it would disperse.

"Okay," she finally answers, her reply hesitant but still there, breath released as I nod and step and pause beside a bride who switches between various states of calm.

"You ready?" I ask, even though I already know her answer, selfishness coasting in little red and white cells, her assurance needed to temper my own.

She licks her lips and fills her lungs, words released on an exhale. "As I'll ever be," she breathes.

The door opens and our feet move, my heart thrust from shadows as dusk grows nearer, sunrise still undecided.

I hear voices, and though I know what's coming, my pulse still races and my chest still hurts, my emotions a tidal wave that sweep and consume as the groomsmen come into sight.

This is different to being nineteen, yet the same, and I wish it was just us again, ready to start instead of end; ready to love and keep promises that have slipped through cracks and faltered at our lips.

I try not to look, but it's impossible, soul tethered and heart pulling, lashes lifted with strings born from his own desire to capture eyes that he's not quick enough to hold.

It's subtle, and not enough, but I can't stop and stare, not right now. He's too close, my downfall and steady hand; my shallow breaths and ungranted tears.

A boy with blue eyes and a shy smile lines up beside me, my cheeks warm for reasons that differ from his. He takes my hand and gives me his name, his reason for being here, _Ben, Em's roommate from college_, his palm smaller than what I'm used to and slightly rough.

He curves my arm around his when I seem to waver, spine tingling as I hear a voice I know all too well flicker to life behind me, my lips parting along with a burn that chills: the reason for each and every bump that rises to my skin's surface.

The words are not meant for me, and I try to discard them, but they linger, a knife's blade that slips too easily through a remembered wound, twisting cruelly for recognition. _"You look lovely."_

I hear a smile I don't need to see—that I've witnessed enough of—a curve I want to watch turn into an upside down moon and fall.

It sheds a too fast beat to gliding ribbons, pulse off course and heart left to break as darkness attempts to take precedence and shift these shapes from dusk back into shadow.

I try to shut everything out, allow that chill to freeze sounds to shards of ice too big to shatter; to a weight too big to carry so I can leave it behind.

But my skin remembers, my hurt prominent, dappled with the pain his compliment to _that _brown-eyed girl has caused.

I can sense him behind me, his nearness the noose around my heart and wanting speed of my pulse, ashes left in the wake of flames as I'm led forward by the arm of another boy.

There is music that sounds pretty but can't be admired, my smile in place as I glance hesitantly from face to face, recognition flittering with the flurry of different features.

There are flower decorations and grin after grin, my eyes lingering on Alice's steady blue gaze until silver catches my attention as finally, I come to the end of the aisle and part to the left.

Jasper sits at the front of the room, his focus all for me as I stand and wait along with everyone else in attendance. I can feel his storm, and I try not to look back. But in need of reprieve, I give up and give in, allowing his presence to distract me from the sight I can't bear to watch.

Its advancement is innocent, but still provoking, charged with too much potential as I keep myself locked inside this uncomfortable content that halts the natural progression my gaze wants to take.

_Edward, always Edward._

My lips threaten to tremble, throat sore from too many tears restrained, pain once again locked beneath the surface. But even then I don't feel better, or safe, _numb _lost between my aching heart and closed mouth.

There is a sudden shift, a brush of warmth as Kate pauses beside me, my exhale slow, slow, slow while bearings try to find their rightful place; while I try to ignore the new set of eyes I can feel piercing my skin.

Then the music changes and for a second, nothing else matters but the most beautiful bride and her happiest soon-to-be husband, my smile genuine in response to Emmett's clear and blinding adoration as he watches his other half walk towards him.

I instantly remember what that feels like, the memory shooting to life like stars across the night sky. And too weak this time, too weak because I know he is still watching, and my heart is still wanting, I let my eyes drift across an ocean of others' until I find his.

And then I'm too empty, too full, unencumbered of my shield in front of this face I know so well.

There is nothing but his eyes and my pounding heart—nothing but this incessant tugging that screams with its own set of lungs, filling my entire chest with mindless echoes.

My diaphragm rises and my tears go with it, brimming against lashes that refuse to blink, fearful of illusions and salt lined cheeks.

He burns bright and hides in the dark: I am never without him, I can never forget him. He embeds himself within even the smallest corners of my being and declines down the curve of my spine with the lightest breath, a consequence of shivers and lips pressed shut.

He stands there looking too perfect to be mine, _inhale, exhale, slow, slow, slow _as I search for some kind of affirmation that he always will be.

The ring on my finger feels heavy, and right—the sweetest, sweetest lie that softens dreams when reality and a wide awake heart is too much to handle.

I want to ask him if he remembers this feeling, this selfish love assailed by memories too painful to hold onto as vows are exchanged before us; as the world tilts and morning light blinks through the shutters that can no longer be denied.

Edward's face is expressionless, but his eyes tell a story, his green that burst of life inside my chest; his cursive lips the flames that kiss my wrists.

It's a fevered intensity, casting messages through a sea of red with sails made from a fan of lashes: a blink, a look, a turn of page. That is until the connection is severed, his swallow heavy, his profile all I'm afforded as I'm simultaneously released and denied; relaxed instead of pulled taut.

I wilt and breathe and wander through a pretense of tearful faces whose cheeks gather the sea, their joy still a form of hurt despite their accompanying smiles.

I pretend I'm not affected, and listen to another kind of love, different to the one that clings and tries to detach—bigger than song and soundless to everything.

Murmurs fill my veins, their expansion ocean wide as my eyes seek their instigator. But my hands shake and there are too many.

It's obvious to find those_ in happiness_, in silence that speaks so loud, empty palms substituted for their sideways partner: a cheek against a shoulder; temple to temple and a true love hold.

How many of these days have I missed?

How many times has a tinge of sadness smudged like ink, pervading my senses and blotting my world; staining Edward's choices and colouring him the villain?

I'm tired of missing out on moments I may not deserve, but want all the same; tired of embracing the arms of loneliness and listening to its nothingness weave its silent thread.

Disappointment comes hand in hand with a beating heart, but I'm no longer so far from home, this pearl we live inside now transparent instead of opaque.

My mind is clear and my heart is breaking. I want to be free of the despondency that cloaks my lids at the end of the day, the one that promises everything is going to be the same again tomorrow, turning smiles to tears and hurtling careless whispers from a bow of flaming lips.

My gaze falls to Jasper for a second, guilt still heavy and oppressing as I think back to last night; as I recount that senseless need to prove I was not so alone.

Perhaps this is the fault in us all, the mark of X that lingers to the left, _love _turning our stupid hearts reckless.

Cowardice coerces me to look away, pulled back by something that carries so much more influence than regret, Edward's eyes now hard, his jaw tense, stare nothing like it was moments ago.

He is a blood-red moon in the blackest of skies, and I am the shining tear, representing the star that is enameled in too much feeling to be admired.

He is scared, he is angry—he's never been able to handle this type of emotion. He forces himself blind and sees only what he wants to see.

His attention shifts, clues gifted as I follow its course, his anger suddenly not only for me, but for a boy who is none the wiser while Edward's focus continues to alternate between the two of us with furrowed brows.

His glare is accusing, his notions so, so wrong as we break, and turn, and lose one another a little bit more.

My heart tears, achingly alive in this silence as everything seems to get a little bit dimmer in sound.

I blink slowly, a magical interlude that lasts for mere seconds; with a trembling breath, the reason for stilted beats becomes all too apparent.

The resounding echoes of_ I do_ reverberate like gunshots, grievances that weep happy smiles with moments that sit apple sweet on my tongue before dissolving to bitterness and so much_ want_.

I watch as a veil is lifted, as lips are pressed against lips, sealing a union that is captured in the hearts of everyone here without the need of a too bright flash.

This feeling has a dimension all of its own, a box inside of a box inside of another—a spiraling staircase missing its bottom step.

I am screaming once more, a reiteration of thrumming ticks and noiseless yearning as cheers paint the walls yellow, filling my lungs with roaring chaos whose strings I try to hold on to. But unlike before, this time I am not so invisible.

My suffering is shared, a canvas bearing the pain of too many colours: If I'm feeling this way, then so is he.

Edward engulfs his brother in a hug, his smile wide but eyes tight at the corners as he shakes hands and cups shoulders. He kisses Rosalie's cheek and gets a playful shove as he taps his own, that familiarity I'd questioned earlier suddenly alive and present.

He looks at everyone but me, as obvious as the first day I met him. It's at that point I notice I'm not the only one staring.

Kate watches with unveiled interest, an interval of looks beneath lashes as she tries to find her place here. She steps forward, a tentative beam of light that encircles her friend, cheek against cheek and arms loosely wrapped across shoulders, conscious of upcoming pictures.

I still feel like a child around her, clutching flowers I don't know the name of and standing on the sidelines as a family that should be mine suddenly feels a lot like hers.

I carry bruises that won't heal; that are not skin deep but soul purple. I'm aware that there will be no end to her attentiveness until the word _stop _falls from my lips.

Em captures my eye and I force my feet to move, soon embraced within strong arms as I rise up on tiptoes and whisper_ congratulations _against his cheek.

"I'm so fucking happy, Bella," he grins, his expression warm as he lets me go.

"I'm sure a lot of these people will be soon enough," Alice interjects, appearing at her brother's side in a dark green dress, kissing his cheek before clarifying, "Open bar," at his raised brows.

His laugh is immediate, and unconsciously, I find myself matching that sound, a lost memory and cheeks that ache as, just for a moment, nothing hurts.

But then he's being ushered forward, and someone is touching my arm, and there is that blue-eyed boy again, leading me back the way I came. Except this time, it's a little different; this time, I have no choice but to watch those in front of me walk first.

That coveted happiness suddenly seems unattainable again: a missing key and rusted lock.

Kate is smiling, and Edward's smile is there, and mine feels like it will be lost forever. It hurts, so much I almost can't breathe, a fleeting apology—that I didn't have time to ignore this love that binds me to the boy in front of me—an accompanying, towering high-rise of guilt that is pushed aside with the lie.

Another door is opened, another room bathed in gold as a photographer stands at its center, my arm left bare with a friendly smile while Edward's is still held... _and maybe I can hate her after all. _

I'm drowning in flowering spite, lost among the nothingness of scorn, loving someone more than they may love me.

The thought pinches, pulling at stitches that have yet to fasten this pain shut, unraveling at the speed of flashing lights as the bride and groom smile and smile and smile to the backdrop of a steady click.

It's impossible not to look at him now, at his easy stance and moving lips; the pull of his brows and resulting nod as his name is called.

As, finally, he detaches himself to stand beside his brother and the other men in the room as another round of click-flash-clicks begin.

Courage is a funny thing. It is already to be broken—desperate and left wanting. Fear rises and vanishes like vapour; I become a stranger to myself as I make my way over to a girl whose attention is still shining so bright in this fragment of the world she's not meant to orbit.

I pause at her side, surprise evident in the double glance she affords me while I take a deep breath. "Bella—"

"I don't want you touching him anymore," I interrupt, staring right at her, face unmasked and words true.

Her expression doesn't change, and she doesn't need a name, this neutrality she walks around with still glued to her features as her composure holds. "But it was okay before?" she challenges calmly, unruffled and pretty in peach.

I shake my head. "It was never okay," I reply, my voice steady despite the anger that causes my hands to curl into fists.

Her voice is as soft as always, her tone the caress of a rose without its thorns. "I have no ulterior motive, here," she tells me, unblinking and steady in her admission. "I like Edward. And that's it."

Her words roll around in my head and I dismiss them as easily as they came. "I think you're lying," I respond. "I see the way you look at him."

"And I see the way you stand there in all your heartache, waiting for some beautiful boy to come and save you," she tells me, her words _too close, too close_, _too close._

My hate breathes fire, wings grown, a dark form of crying without the tears. "You're wrong," I breathe harshly, my ire a rapid incline that has nowhere to fall beneath the watchful eyes inside this room. "Because I'm here now, doing something I should have done a long time ago."

But I'm not so sure she's listening, her response instant—sure—a repetition of strength. "He won't save you," she voices, looking at me with all the confidence I wish I possessed. "He _can't._ It's in his eyes. If you looked a little harder, outside of your own reflection—your own_ hurt_—you'd find that the same sadness you feel inside is staring right back at you."

My hands shake: vision blurry and jaw set. "Don't pretend to know me... _him_," I say angrily, blinking quickly to stop the tears I can feel building between my lashes. "You don't know the first thing about either of us."

But I don't know if that's true. I don't know if Edward has confided in this girl—if he's spilled tears against her shoulder... taken her comfort at a time where I was too close to give it.

"I'm not stupid, I know what you must think of me," she muses while slowly smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear, her gaze falling away for just a moment before rising back up. "But I'm not... I'm not trying to steal your husband. He reminds me of someone, and sometimes... sometimes it's hard not to react."

My throat is thick, my words forced: I don't want her excuses. "Who?" I ask anyway, ashamed to feel a kind of happiness in the way her eyes mist just a little.

"My husband. I lost him eight months ago." And that shame, it twists and turns, ugly and diseased as it spirals over and over until I think I'll lose myself in its poison.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice a little strained, sentiment true, stuck on this dark and solitary path hidden beneath the cover of weeds.

She shakes her head, an easy dismissal where I know I'd be falling and falling. "I'm not telling you this in order to gain sympathy," she murmurs resolutely, "I'm trying to explain..."

She takes a deep breath, a lack of colour and transparent calm. "When Edward looks at you, he reminds me of all the things I want. Sometimes, when I catch his eyes afterwards, however fleeting, it's almost as if those things are mine... that I get to keep them, even if only for a little while."

My heart grows a river of cracks, splintering into valleys, disconnect flowing one way, sympathy another.

I don't want to be feeling this. I want to shout and scream and tell her all the things I feel inside; all these gnarled and painful disturbances she resurrects with her presence.

But she keeps going and going, cornering me inside an already shrinking box of indecision.

"You don't know how lucky you are, to have someone look at you like that," she insists, full of this black tainted assurance that rises like smoke; a coil of abandonment that unfurls in the space between us.

Her statement pierces an already vulnerable resolve, a rise and fall of disjointed guilt and prickly awareness as those green, green eyes from across the room fall and settle; uncover and unnerve.

Edward watches—_back and forth, back and forth_—his demeanour set in stone, carved from a form of controlled curiosity as I question exactly what it is she sees that I don't. Because right now he is not looking at me in any way that should inspire reverence or want. He is granite, an ache; my grieving heart and Sunday morning silence tangled up in empty sheets.

He is a picture of heated words, his outward appearance to be admired... but the countenance behind his eyes is not.

I look and look—maybe I'm just as blind as he is.

"I don't know why you're telling me any of this," I say, shifting my focus back to the girl at my side. "It changes nothing."

She becomes the aggressor, her reply tugging at cords that don't want to stretch; that don't want to bind her wounded heart, ignorant of the guilt-tainted longing that attempts to form its knots and tie its bows.

"I'm telling you this because I had to watch the man I love... the same one who no longer loved me... _die_. That's_ why_. I grew to learn the difference between the apathy you see and the fear that's really there."

I scatter, her smile pained and maybe a little bitter, gaze washed over with the cover of tears she holds back with a kind of practiced ease I recognise.

She looks to the ceiling, her blinks quick... She is too much like me in this moment and I hate it.

"At first, I thought he was just being cruel, acting out over his fear, but after the fourth or fifth time, I could see he meant it. His eyes were a constant reminder. They weren't hard or cold, they were just his eyes, looking through me, rather than at me. He didn't care if I sat beside him... wouldn't leave the room if I stepped inside or stay out all night instead of coming home. I was no longer an interest. He just didn't care."

Something inside of me breaks along with the control she has on her emotions as a tear rolls quickly down her cheek, her fingers quick to catch and discard as I turn away, unable to watch.

She's suddenly no longer just a person who causes me pain; she carries her own, too. I think I'm angry... and maybe cold hearted... my words short and harsh in lieu of the ones I should probably bestow. "I don't want to hear any more... so _stop_. I don't... I don't need your help."

_I don't want you humanising yourself any further._

"And I'm not trying to give it to you," she says gingerly. "I'm just telling you my story; we're just two people talking. I'm not trying to get you to _feel_ or _do _anything."

This makes me want to laugh. "But how can I not?" I question incredulously as I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. "Of course you are. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"I have no reason to lie," she points out quietly. "Edward will never want me, and whatever you may think, I don't want him either."

I'm back to watching her now, my initial perception refusing to be discouraged despite the words that have left her mouth.

Seconds pass; she waits, I think. And maybe I don't know her—maybe I've only been seeing what I want to see. But it changes nothing: I want her gone.

"Just stay away from him," I repeat firmly. Her gaze drops and I wonder if she's feeling the same shift in the room as I am, focus veering to the center of the room where the photographer is motioning for us to join the remainder of the wedding party for a group shot.

Silence takes over us then; we separate, no further words parted with, tension thick and distance small as we make our way over to where the others stand.

Cotton hearts bleed, unstitched and falling apart at the seams as hesitation causes my feet to falter; as something that should be so obvious is the reason for so much uncertainty.

I pause, surety tangled up in blue: water still and current trapped inside my pulse.

Despite the fact Edward is here, my safety net no longer lingers beneath my feet, threads burnt out with the flames of doubt.

_I don't know where to stand. _

But then a hand is at my back, gently prompting me into the space that has opened up beside my husband, a flux of wrong and right and_ let me be enough._

The photographer walks away and I am left staring straight ahead, my heartbeat an erratic skip of stones, skimming the surface of this feeling that grows stronger and stronger like the rise and fall of a wave.

For the first time today, I don't want to run or walk; I don't want to close my eyes and pretend this isn't happening.

I feel breathless, this spark of fire an inferno of wasted moments; a burst of too many desires left unclaimed: I am right where I should be.

Just maybe not close enough.

Edward's palm advances lightly across my lower back, drawing me nearer without a word, this minimal distance between us shattered with his touch, hand settling at the curve of my waist.

Side against side, fingertips press against the cover of peach as I press my lips closed and look where I'm supposed to look: smile and hold and_ click, click, click._

Here, I am not broken; here, I can chase rainbows with every teardrop shed and tell myself these walls aren't too high to climb, for my heart is sure and I know the way, all other fickle reasonings bulldozed to the ground.

Then it's over, a disperse of bodies and chorus of happy voices that circle and soar.

_I don't want to move_.

I want to curl against him, turn and turn and lose myself in his hold—in this momentary sweetness that hurts as much as heals.

His hand doesn't leave, and his lips stay shut, but it doesn't matter, because mine part, honesty speaking for us both.

"I hate the beauty of this day," I whisper solemnly, the words almost getting caught in my throat as his fingers press a little harder—_tether, ache, closer, closer_. "It hurts too much."

Maybe he won't reply. Maybe he'll surprise me. Maybe he does. "I know," he murmurs, avoiding my eyes as I look up at his face.

His jaw is tense, his hold its matching pair: steady breaths and a strain not so discreet. He's tied up with strings from the heart; with gritted teeth and a need to remain unaffected despite his words that let me know otherwise.

"I don't want to though," I add, wheels turning on this distant and uneven ground. "Some aspects still feel the same... like the part where I'm waiting to see you... where all I can think about is _you_."

His lids fall shut and his nostrils flare; doors open and stares turn our way. He doesn't seem to notice, but I know he will. He is needed for speeches; for laughs and smiles; for his brother.

My hand instinctively reaches for his, gaining his attention, keeping it with an effort that forces air into my lungs and fear out of my heart.

"We need to talk," I say quietly, resisting the urge to thread my fingers through his, especially under the intensity of his gaze, knowing time is not on our side right now.

His exhale comes from deep inside his chest, his searching eyes and resulting nod all the affirmation I need, lips licked as I drown in this restless desire and love that has nowhere else to go.

_Is this killing you like it's killing me?_

His thumb runs over my knuckles, making this next move harder as I pull out of his hold. "Find me later, okay?" I say, feeling this longing beat so wild and expectant at my wrists, my throat—my hollow shield. "Don't forget about me."

Emmett's boisterous laugh sounds from the doorway; spinning hands and easy glances laced in pain as I wish and want and look so hard, exchanging hunger with a flicker of lashes and empty touch.

He steps forward, shading me in shadow, in his dark wanting with lips against skin; with a forehead kiss that allows gravity to take over, eyes closing as night weeps stars.

"I couldn't forget about you even if I wanted to," he whispers, touching me nowhere else—feeling him everywhere. "You're the only one I see."

He lingers; I burn. He is still a spotlight in the dark.

But this time, I don't have to fight the urge to shift away from his circle.

This time, he does it all on his own. For us both.

* * *

**Reviews will get a teaser for the final chapter.**

**Or if you'd rather not have a teaser, just leave a little note.**

**I have a few recs this week:**

**My gorgeous fic wife aWhiteBlankPage posted a new story since I last updated this thing. **

**'Honest Liar' is amazing and everyone needs to be reading it.**

**I am obsessed with 'Melt' by ineedyoursway. So, so good.**

**And lastly, the lovely Jaime and Phoebe—who make up aftrnoondlight—have a new story out. **

**'Symmetry' is only two chapters in and is beautiful and has the best Edward.**

**Thanks so much for reading.**

******I'll see you in a few days.**

**VHL xx**


	20. Tethered  Part Two

**Hey everyone! **

**I'm going to leave all my thanks at the bottom, so I'll see you at the end. :)**

**Disclaimer****: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.**

* * *

Bella

This room is a glass box. The sounds are too intense, a wave of voices that echo and fall; that crash and drown and numb my thoughts blue.

In its very center, a couple spin: gaze, breathe, kiss—smile, laugh, touch. They are newlywed hearts, air walkers and ticking clocks; our eyes don't leave and they turn us around the room without us ever leaving our seats.

I swirl golden bubbles by a delicate stem in a space where everything glistens: lights, eyes,_ smile, kiss, smile_—a snowflake dream that transforms worries to shimmering petals of ice.

But the problem with dreams, where, for the tiniest moment we exist among the clouds, is that they never last. Reality has no choice but to push and shove and creep through the gaps of consciousness—through this self-inflicted happy bubble that fills the void of sleep with an intensity that feels a lot like a broken heart.

Awareness is a cruel blessing: a too straight spine in a too bright room with the reflection of too many faces; pattern formed within a crowded street, body hailed with the design of our own making.

Clarity soon begins to thaw, seeping through my skin like ink to paper, a remembered tattoo that colours a path to its red composer; a circus of wires, a continuation of beat after beat, hand steady as one name rises above the orchestra of others.

Edward made a speech today, holding a room captive with his honey coated lies. But I shut down and shut off—I didn't listen._ I couldn't. _I filled my head with the roar of silence; the consume of a wave that blocked out everything but the sound of my beating heart, my one man marching band busy at work inside my chest.

I became the sun, his words evaporating like water as I shaped my thoughts to confetti and set them free, a flurry of orange blossoms that imitated wings and migrated to a safer place.

And then it was over, and I could breathe and shake off summer, a kind of desperation that settled under skin and tunneled through hollow bones, blurring out recognition under the intensity of its rays.

Only then did I look up and encounter spring, his eyes all mine while my heart bled and soul questioned—while my thoughts rolled like ribbon, cursive satin silhouettes of _why are you always so far away_, the things we don't say out loud sometimes as powerful as the things we do.

Only then, with his head bent and brows knit, did I wonder if his muted words had been for me alone.

I miss him in simulated sleep and when dreams die; when I refuse to dream another dream, washed ashore with salty cheeks and crumbling tears, a collapse of a castle, safe harbour swallowed by sand that is described as quick.

I miss his eyes and our shared mornings, his green undertow and stormy kisses. I miss the boy who promised me forever._ Keep me under your skin. Keep me in your heart._

And this is why I can't give up, why I can't stop sinking—why I can't help but be reminded of what we were.

Because life is never perfect, the cracks always appear, and even the strongest of dreams can fail to become enough.

But I still sleep, I still breathe... I wish and want and dream bigger than I ever have before._ He's still here._

The floor begins to grow bodies, couples merging to gaze, breathe, kiss—smile, laugh, touch. I see a pattern forming; sweethearts and first impressions, old love and brand new.

Mine is somewhere in this room, obscured because I maybe refuse to _see_, a distortion of glass, a hollow wound waiting to be filled with honest lips and _please, don't let me go._

Edward is no longer in his seat, a restless wanderer who takes my heart on his travels, weary with pretense, weighed down with a refusal, with an unwarranted escape.

Kate, however, remains in hers, devoted to sunbeams, to her friend; still beside me, still too close.

She is invisible, she is a monument—she is all too present.

This room is a boat, a cacophony of rising laughter and gentle sway; the sweetest song, a lonely dance.

I pine and exist, but unable to wait and watch, I stand and pretend, feet aimless in their departure and contradiction to be found.

Minutes pass and I begin to worry I have become forgotten, an unfavoured ritual that is as familiar as any other, though not as preferred. The feeling is ugly and painful and loud. It takes over with a speed I wish would slow, a practised orbit that stops and starts at the heart.

But then a different type of familiarity cuts through the fog of despair and disintegration of ruby, and I can't see, not yet, but I don't need to. I always know when he is near, an intricate necessity in this buried life.

I feel his hands first, palms gliding from the top of my arms to the tips of my fingers, thumbs brushing wrists from behind as his chest meets my back, prayers held and released, sun kissed and not so alone.

His nose sweeps the side of my neck, hot and cold and _shiver_, ghostly chills as I lean and fall, lids weighted with relief, a tether of fibres and fold of lashes.

A soft trail and a blocked throat: my cheeks warm, my head tilts, my world follows.

"You weren't listening before, were you?" he murmurs, his lips pausing at my ear, my fingers tightening around his.

My gaze meets the ceiling, caught up in all those glistening lights, dazzled and dizzy and fearful of upcoming decisions. "Your speech?" I question slowly.

I feel his breath... his pause... his, "Yes."

His face drops lower, parted mouth meeting the curve of my neck as I blink and breathe and allow gold to blind a little more. "No, I wasn't listening," I whisper, pushing words up and up and up. "I couldn't. I didn't want to hear happy lies."

There is a lull in sound; in voices that are not only our own as one song ends and another begins; as his touch leaves, but _he _doesn't.

"Turn around," he says softly, my feet submitting despite the apprehension that causes goose bumps to detonate across my skin.

He's closer than I expected, vision clouded by white cotton, a stark comfort that tries to lure me into hold. But his hands are in his pockets, tucked safely from reach, and so I take a step back, consoled with his expression.

He doesn't move as I do, he simply examines my face, eyes wandering with a dark intensity; midnight control and an inner trembling.

I follow his lead and pay close attention, his top button undone and tie-knot loose at the collar; his jacket discarded like I've been so many times before.

A deep inhale and his chest expands, drawing my eyes to his mouth, to the clean shaven line of his jaw.

My hands want to touch, palms itching to capture this picture forever. He looks so much like the boy I fell in love with; who caused me to tumble like a house of cards, hearts one side, diamonds the other.

His lips part and my pulse quickens, an assault of memories that brandish two hearts as one in this adjoining ache... as I wonder if there will ever be a time when it won't physically hurt to look at him.

Hesitantly, almost as if I'll scare him away, I raise my hand to his face: fingers to skin and eyes that glisten. "I know this boy," I whisper, drowning in recognition that plucks weary strings and causes my voice to falter.

He pulls his eyes from mine, leaving me alone, blind without his assurance, like hands reaching out into the night.

I'm tired, breakable, a shell of sugar already chipped around the edges. And he doesn't look, but I still see; his swallow hard as he takes that extra step forward, the smoke clearing, his chest warm against mine, thumb gentle against my bottom lip.

"Are you ready for that dance?" he asks, and I immediately start to panic, his words of yesterday barreling through a funnel of red. It speaks of endings and broken promises; of goodbyes and a pain I don't want to consider.

There is pressure against my lip, harder but not hard, and I grip his wrist and shake my head, his mouth suddenly closer as he whispers, "Don't look at me like that... it's okay." But my heart isn't so sure.

He's lied before, the nature to forget not so potent here by the sea, in this crowded room, cushioned by the din of voices.

His palm cups my right cheek, coaxing and persuading, bringing us forehead to temple, his eyes falling shut before mine do the same, following him into honeyed darkness.

"Don't make me beg," he breathes, tone hushed and already imploring, relieving me of choice with his rough whisper. "We're at a wedding... I just want to hold you."

His sentence is disjointed, words a blissful surrender as his thumb strokes high on my cheek, enticing my lashes to lift, resolve immediately weakening beneath his steady gaze.

My eyes tear and lips tremble, breath a broken stutter while I grasp the front of his shirt and tell him, "You're holding me now."

His exhale is shaky, his words strained, heart-box cracked open. "I want to dance with my wife," he pushes out, trying again, trapped inside this cocoon of green and white and beating pink.

I get lost in my favourite colour, in this wilt of petals and sweetened sorrow. "Don't say no," he murmurs.

He is thirst and pleading eyes, and I am too full with this vocal feeling... too weak to deny him anything.

I hear his breath... his own lump in his throat as he swallows; as he continues to stare in that overwhelming way of his, the same intensity that held me to him at our beginning suddenly not so favourable in this vanishing light.

"Okay," I concede, awash in relief; in lips brushing hair as he straightens and leads me forward by the hand without another word.

Our movements are unhurried, my waist caught, a hardness present in his grasp while my palms slide high, gentle and unsure. His skin is warm beneath his shirt, the tips of my fingers carrying his heat as we begin to sway under the cover of artificial stars.

He stares down into my eyes, exposing me within seconds, his face unreadable, a contrast to my own, the pages of my book left open for his inspection.

My hands relax, and I can't remember the last time we did this; where he held me in a room because he wanted to, and not because he had to.

His brow furrows, lines forming at outer corners, his expression bordering on painful, gaze dark to match the expanse of his lashes.

"It hurts to look at you sometimes," he says, almost sounding wounded as he trails the back of his finger down my cheek. "Have I ever told you that?"

And it becomes all too much. I'm glass. I shatter at his feet and glisten in the sun; collect tears from the sky and let them roll down my cheeks.

His touch glides to my neck, igniting goose bumps and a wayward heart as I shake, and shiver, and tell him _no_.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, setting me alight with a droop of lashes: sunlit showers and golden gates. "You always have been."

My palms find his chest, feeling his warmth there, too, living in his accelerated beat. "So are you," I whisper, his lips brushing across my forehead, feather light in a not-quite-there kiss.

I feel his smile against my skin and nothing has ever felt so good—my eyes squeeze shut and I'm not sure anything ever will.

I want to stay in this moment forever; take up residence in the curve of his lips and live out my days in this thing called happiness.

Time begins to drift and we sail with it, weightless and content, and then he's kissing along my jaw... and this is better: flicker, flame and shudder.

Hope remains fragile, this soft intensity refusing to wane; despite the sounds that let me know otherwise, there is no one in this room but us.

There are only two hearts and two sets of lips; two broken dreams and two lost souls.

My fingers dig into his chest and curl into his shirt, the ache in my throat dissolving with the caress of his mouth, bitter words rendered to powdered sugar that taste like salt.

Hands slide and noses brush, hushed secrets and timid sparks, his voice thick as he presses, "I thought about you all night."

He pulls me closer and I go all too willingly, breath warm against lips while my eyes remain closed; while I continue to be led down this dark tunnel devoid of light at its end.

"Tell me," I say quietly, wanting his truths, his prayers... palm to palm confessions that bare no sound; that live inside his head, his heart, my own desires.

His lips pause at the edge of my mouth and I think I've forgotten how to breathe; smoke and mist and _I'm drifting._

"I thought about how soft your skin is," he starts, bringing his palm back to my neck, "and about the sounds you make when I touch you in places only I get to see."

I flush and flutter beneath ribs, my cheek adorned with light strokes of his thumb, his voice firm, but breakable, as he implores, "Look at me."

His nearness overwhelms: cinder toffee on cold autumn nights as I feel my cheeks begin to heat, his eyes intent on mine between the cover of lazy blinks.

Colours bleed, lips meeting skin, and I hold back my music, harmony trapped within a brittle maze, skin pulled between teeth as he sucks softly.

Thunder follows, vibrating with his careful attention, fingers chasing pathways designed by a wanting mouth, stance shifted, head tilted, way found with a cascade of kisses down a column that _feels_.

"I fell asleep thinking about your mouth," he shares, his own parted against my throat, breath hot as he pants against skin, "and how it's the prettiest fucking mouth I've ever seen."

I warm all over, a moon shaded outside the lines with crimson felt, kisses circling lips, driving my heart insane and my pulse crazy with the scatter of stars.

Passion speaks, his expression a slow work of art, lids lazy and eyes without their usual green; words ethereal white but the opposite of cold. "You haunt me," he adds quietly, ghostly secrets that glow warm in darkness.

My lips part and I want him to tell me again, and again, his touch only a little more than light. He's giving me more than I expected, but I dare not dream, or sleep—not yet.

Heart grasping wildly, he pulls back ever so slightly, clearer view gained, eyes still mine as he looks at me in a way I remember; as he tucks loose strands back into place, mood softened but still relentless.

As, for now, I'm all he wants.

But it doesn't stop the ache, the blur of tears that stream my vision... the way he turns to something else... something pain provoking and familiar; the reason for frost and glittering gazes, freezing a scene in tears.

His attention lowers, melted snowflakes caught by thumbs, face cradled within sure palms and caressed by whispers of, "Do you dream of me, Bella?"

Silence settles and shifts, straining to make out sounds that have yet to come, my secret a lazy tide, my answer rising from the ground-up, like those of the dead. "I don't want to," I murmur, truths and smudges and admissions that pinch. "When I do, on those long nights afterwards, I can't sleep or close my eyes, because dreaming of you, while trapped in that forgetful moment... it makes me happy."

A breath follows, his expression a potent mix of something troubled, something relieved. But I haven't finished. "It all changes when I wake though," I add, broken by reminders that snag like thread; that transform from white to red, refusing to weave these thoughts to something worth keeping. To something that doesn't hurt. "My heart races... and that joy is so much worse, because it's then that I remember you're not next to me... or mine... that you're different."

We're no longer swaying, balancing on delicate memories instead of rope, invisible bindings pulled taut beneath our feet. I want to look away, his eyes showing me too much, but my mouth—my stupid, stupid mouth—it outlines truths and practices sounds, concepts I want to sail away in green and watch float.

And float.

And float.

"I miss you," I breathe, drowning in gazes made of thunderclouds and this business of being a grown-up that I hate.

His expression shifts... and this... this he doesn't like. He focuses on my lips instead, almost as if he wants to halt their movement with words of his own; a paper chain of letters adhered with glue.

"It's partly my fault," I say, watching his blinks quicken, his control slip. "We were young... and I loved you too hard. I held everyone up to your standards, even myself, which is why this shattered illusion is so hard to accept."

We are alone among these dancing couples, for our faces don't smile and our laughter is not sweet. We don't laugh at all.

"Don't," he says, shaking his head.

"No, I need..." I draw in a deep breath, pushing forward, bumping walls and scraping skin. "I put too much pressure on your shoulders without thinking... because I was just _feeling_. And that wasn't fair. I didn't care about anything but you. I still don't."

My throat feels tight, filled with airborne choices that soar kite-high, these shifts loud and clear. I focus on his forming frown and breathe life into forgotten lungs, dusting off inner troubles, truths swept like cobwebs from my tongue.

He says nothing, this dam threatening to give way and burst as he holds me like he used to... in a way my fingertips like as they stroke the hair at the nape of his neck.

And maybe that's a good thing... maybe I don't want him to say a word; masts still lowered and flags rolled up tight.

We all lose ourselves in different ways, and I think he chooses his moment now, to fall, to hide, his eyes momentarily closing, a brief reprieve as my heart drops and anchors under the weight of his hold, his mouth, our gentle sway.

Everything makes sense like this, his kiss temporarily eradicating worries, this crazy world topped and tied with a pretty satin bow. It's soft, then hard, and I never want to leave his arms, reminding myself to stay strong amidst this current that pulls at my lips, swirling with the colours of our past mistakes.

But that would be too easy, and I get swept up in ocean levels that rise inside my chest; saltwater blue and sandcastle-keeps that desperately try to hold my tears at bay.

Then his mouth is gone, laboured wilts and sugar cube kisses, lumps dissolved as his lips find my temple, pressing against skin once more, _softly, softly_, an azure sky streaked with weightless white.

It's all too good and too much, crashing into place; a barrel of lightning inside my heart, a rumble of thunder inside his chest, both powerless against these grey clouds that linger and promise.

And it rains.

It rains.

"I know you can feel this," he murmurs, holding his lips to my cheek for emphasis, penetrating disappearing acts of the past. "I'm right here."

He repeats his words again and again, intermittent with faultless kisses, a summer breeze that is meant to reassure, but fails to melt the ice caps inside my chest.

I take a small step back: shift and sway and get dragged back by the tide, his hands my steady feet as he holds me a little tighter, refusing my movement.

It tears at my clear sky resolve, at my cliff edge beat... at my sunset desire to find what we once were. Because kisses can't last forever, and those cracks keep appearing—there's only so much pain a pair of lips can heal.

I raise a palm to his cheek, holding his eyes captive as the tips of my fingers press into his skin, our stars stretched to shine on us alone.

His swallow is thick and I look... I look so hard, watching how his own tears form, but don't fall, bound between dark protectors.

"No," I say shakily, not immune to the expression he's giving me, my voice wavering, but free, like a kite without its string. "I miss _you_... your laugh and sleepy smiles... your _good morning, beautiful _and coffee stained kisses."

His blinks are quick, his breaths shallow, my own following, this choice to follow not a choice at all.

It's inevitable.

It's impulsive.

It's wanting to feel all there is to feel.

And maybe I should stop, but as the sun starts to set, I can't help but touch the apple of Edward's cheek, my fingers sure in their whispered movement. "There is so much wanting between us," I say, tracing his skin without hesitation, every selfish bone in my body willing for him to _hear _me.

"And I'm so tired. It makes me feel crazy and I can't think straight. Everything clouds... everything apart from you, because you're always in my head—in my heart. And nothing works, nothing changes... Being apart from you is like trying to breathe underwater."

The shadows around us dance and edge closer, night closing in before drifting once more, a chorus of revolving figures that live in periphery alone.

"I miss feeling alive and not breaking," I say on an exhale, coveting more than just breath. "But most of all, Edward, I miss seeing you happy. You used to be so, so happy."

His jaw locks, muscles clenching along with teeth as he tears his gaze from mine, refusing to look at me any longer. But I don't give up. I press myself closer, haunting him tight.

A crease forms between his brows, his hands tense at my sides; a body made of stone, his expression an erosion of control. I'm left feeling cold: a storm of frozen glances and whirlwind of snowy confusion. He's shutting me out, caught up in the web of his thoughts, woven with black and spun with the unfeeling attempt of blue.

Butterflies run through my veins, their delicate and dusty wings trembling at wrists as I hide my face against his shirt, breathing him in, experiencing home.

He's standing so still, a contrast to my hands that grip that harsh white cotton. But his heart... it gives him away. It's beating so fast, his own butterflies present behind bars, my lips their button of control as I kiss and soothe and evoke memories he'd rather not remember.

"Please come back," I whisper, my voice small and broken, eyes squeezing shut against this overwhelming need to _fix _that coasts heavily through my blood. "_Please_. It's all I want."

I'm floating inside my skin, his silence sliding to my heart, settling like rock, heavy in more ways than one. And then we're breaking apart, a little girl with messy curls and smudged cheeks tugging at pant legs with small and twisting fingers, giving him an escape.

He murmurs to a sweet face, his smile reserved for unaware youth, my heart punishing at the seams, spectator to this side of him.

Shadows follow like memories, surrender easily supplied with this expression he wears, the one that makes me long for something we may never have.

My presence is remembered, or maybe never forgotten, a line to hang onto as I dangle in this stilted moment. "I'll be right back," he promises, staring in a way that makes me want to believe the lie. "Don't leave."

He waits and watches, and I nod and try to stitch this pain closed, my disappointment hidden behind an unsmiling face. He doesn't go far, his gaze flicking to mine as little feet rest atop his shiny shoes and small hands clutch larger palms.

It's surreal and agonising—revered and something I didn't know I wanted—a secret unlocked with the flare of an unexpected scene.

Dark waters rise, the ocean at night, moon-lighting and pearly skin, cheeks kissed under the influence of a muted white sun.

I float all alone, drifting to sidelines as a silent plea is answered by a stranger in heart, but not by name, drudged up from sea beds like forgotten shells that aren't quite special enough to be treasured.

Jasper pauses beside me, fatigue pulling at the strings of my resolve, my strength filtered to sand as the very person I've been aiming to distance myself from tangles around my senses like pollen on a too hot day.

I feel on edge with his proximity—cliff drops and choppy waters as he dapples night with his silver spark and insistent gaze.

He's standing too close, igniting goose bumps born from tension rather than wanting his eyes, his touch, excitement replaced with this compulsive need to drive him away.

"Can we talk?" he asks, warmth cutting through cotton sleeves, pebbling skin as his arm brushes mine.

His words are simple, spoken softly, and his is touch light, not intentional, but their meaning carries weight, greater than feather and equal to stone, enticing warning signs that flash soundlessly through a rapidly beating heart.

I stare through the crowd, faces more apparent while concealing the only one I want, search hopeless; lost out at sea as the mouth of a wave hovers precariously above my head.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," I manage, fingers curling as I turn to face him, tempted by fear and reacting from touch.

His hand is resting atop my shoulder, his eyes a plea of grey skies and rocky shores, weakening the conviction of my words with a tilt of his head. "I just want to talk," he assures, noticing my preoccupation as I continue to look, the ghost of unbroken love swallowed whole by a rainbow of swirling fabric.

Scales tilt, options weighed and other misplaced as I nod and say, "Okay, but only for a moment."

Gazes follow while hugs and smiles continue to be exchanged, a never-ending cycle fueled by potent amber and sparkling bubbles with our disappearance through a white wooden door.

Sounds dim with a click, distance created with the advance of unhurried steps, minimal privacy gained as we settle beside glass.

A window overlooks the street below, my focus drifting between the scene outdoors and the one attached to glass, lost despite knowing exactly where I am.

"You look nice," he says, voice low as he follows my stare out the hotel window.

I shake my head and grip the sill before me. "Don't," I say hoarsely, cutting him off as nerves and guilt shake like leaves in autumn.

I'm being unfair, treating him this way: cold, hurt, wronged. But my panic doesn't waver, and my feelings don't change, even though I'm just as much to blame for a kiss that should never have happened.

I'd been too wrapped up in my own sadness; too busy wondering what it would feel like to be with someone else that way... to let another boy kiss my mouth. For someone other than Edward to own that part of me.

But it wasn't worth it, and would never make up for the broken look that is now etched behind lids.

A line has been crossed, and however much I want to pretend nothing happened, that nothing is different, it did, it is, and there's no taking that back. I've lost a friend that maybe always wanted to be more, and he risked a connection that is steadily beginning to unravel like thread.

"They're just words, Bella," he adds quietly, his breath easy, his assurance misplaced.

His swallow is hard, his eyes unblinking—we both know they're not.

Sadness lingers inside my chest as his gaze catches mine; as I find something I think I already knew would be waiting. "Maybe before," I agree, wanting to erase this fleeting mistake; the misprint in a book and page I want to watch curl with a burn. "But not now."

He looks at me like always, a pressure present in the back of my throat as he tugs and tugs for things I can't give: bruise and ache, weave and stitch.

His pain is selfish—_shame on you._

And some part of me wishes I could make it better—_shame on me._

Time passes, and those questioning whispers from last night are nothing but static now; a course of feedback hissing inside veins. For my heart has its own memory, tethers in place long before Jasper entered my life; hands tied and smiles joined with the security of a ring.

There can be no more midday coffees; no more loaded conversations that perhaps I wasn't so blind to after all. Because the world turns and we go with it, collecting memories from behind a lens... in the blink of an eye—a kaleidoscope of colour that flares to life and blurs over time.

It's the way life works; it's how things get left behind. It's the difference between being enough and nothing at all.

When I look at Jasper, there is a box filled with split wire and frayed ribbon that will never quite form a bow.

There is nothing; there is not enough.

There is a cut above his lip that wasn't there before.

"What happened?" I ask softly, angling myself closer.

My fingers want to touch, my question stupid—I already know who gifted him this.

A new layer of guilt begins to form while I allow my eyes to scan a forming bruise that lingers to the right, jaw smudged with muted colours, the cut above his lip small, but there.

He simply stands and watches, my stomach twisting as I think back to last night; to Edward's anger that blinded like the sun, my gaze instinctively dropping to unfamiliar knuckles before rising back to forced smiles that eradicate doubt.

"Don't worry," he pushes out, sensing my thoughts. "I didn't touch him." His laugh is more of a breath as he slides his hands into his pockets.

He sounds defeated, concern shifting while I follow with a slight nod. "When?" I question.

He stares at me for a second longer before turning his focus back out the window. "Last night, not long after you left," he replies.

I think back to closing doors and silent tears; to green eyes following my departure through a crowded room.

It's then I wonder if my tears had dried... if my face had been clear of the anguish I could feel cracking my skin: shattered glass and reflections I didn't want to meet.

"Did he say anything?" I ask, voice low and heart heavy, conscious of arrivals and departures through the door to our right.

His frown is present, his silence oppressing; shackles around ribs and screams outside of lungs. "He didn't really talk," he answers, palm raised to scratch the back of his neck.

Disappointment—shadowed by confusion—immediately settle inside a thundering beat. "He said _nothing_?" I press, the current tension in his jaw leaving no doubt to the direction of his thoughts; a crazy kind of tide that doesn't stop as he turns, storm-grey pulling me back once more.

"He told me to stay away from you," he explains with a slow exhale, my pulse racing as he watches me carefully, the expression on his face promising me the sun where there can be nothing but the pitter-patter of rain.

Confusion continues to taint the surface of my thoughts like dust, and I want to retrace steps and close my eyes... pretend that there is no fear... assure myself that not always being able to see what is ahead of me is a comfort.

"Then why are we here right now?" I whisper, vision blurring beneath the weight of unshed tears, hands squeezing tightly as I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting Edward's fury and the flavour of fault.

"Because it's not that easy for me," he answers, his frustration evident with a rake of his fingers through his hair.

I look away and stare to heights I can't reach, blinking back tears, _easy _a forgotten word and unplaced emotion.

I can't remember what_ easy _feels like.

"You get under skin," he continues, dragging his palms over his face.

I take a breath, forcing myself to speak, throat tight with unrequited feelings. "We hardly know each other... This is _nothing_."

Tiredness sticks to his features, his expression one of frayed frustration with the rub of his palms along the line of his jaw. "I can't help the way I feel about you, Bella," he says quietly, his words too much, his tone laced with the very same guilt that lingers within me.

I concentrate on the boy standing in front of me, time seeming to crawl when I want it to speed, or stop... fade away to weightless wisps of smoke while taking this moment with it.

Jasper is the language I never got to learn. My tongue doesn't know how to pronounce his words, his sounds backwards, cradled within the fog of forgotten thoughts.

Our friendship was built upon ruins created by another, its foundation never strong enough to withstand the balance of futile advances and a stolen kiss, because my heart bleeds for someone else, and nothing this boy can offer me will ever be enough.

"My answer is still the same," I tell him slowly, "... my _feelings _are still the same." I force myself to keep my eyes open, refusing to let my tears fall in this moment.

His brows furrow, his sigh audible. "I know," he says lowly, searching my gaze for something we both know he won't find.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, hating that I'm hurting him.

He shakes his head. "I don't want you to be sorry."

He's making this harder for me, and maybe I deserve it. "I'm sorry," I say again, firmer this time, taking a step back when he reaches out for me, his expression confused... wounded; he looks how I feel, our reasons opposites.

"I can't even _touch _you now?" he questions, that anger... that sadness seeping into his tone.

"You've _never _been able to touch me," I say shakily, upper skies raining tears as I quickly swipe at my cheeks.

He doesn't stop searching, his words hard, but not unkind. Honest. "And yet I did," he answers.

This distance is not enough, this reminder pinching muscle and punishing red. "I didn't know what that meant before... and now I do," I explain.

His demeanour flitters, features creasing. "Don't make me out to be that person... preying on a married woman. That's not fair."

I wrap my arms around myself and look away as I swallow my tears, my regret, this boy undeserving of my blame. "I didn't mean it like that," I say, whisper strained. "And I don't want to hurt you. I'm so sorry."

Silence hovers over tongues, words shredded and left to fall, this day drawing energy and scarring hearts.

There is a whisper of movement before I feel his heat, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders as he presses his lips to my temple, my eyes squeezing shut as he murmurs, "Be happy, Isabella Cullen. Okay?"

I nod, and then his touch is gone, tears streaming cheeks as he continues down the hallway instead of rejoining the wedding party. But maybe that's a good thing, because I'm not the only one who catches his form disappearing around the corner, door closed with forced control, the clench of Edward's fists visible at his sides.

My nails dig into my palms, cursing bad timing while trying to calm breaths and halt sadness, emotions tangled up in salt... lashes drowning at sea. Because Edward doesn't pause like last night. He wastes no time in making his way towards me, his body immediately closing in, his face a mixture of so many things as he stands above and around, a storm cloud ready to wreak havoc.

My pulse races, my back pressed to the wall as the muscles in his jaw lock, suspicion scorching rationality with an unbeatable force, his palms braced either side of my head, fists curled and knuckles white: hands that heal, hands that bruise.

I can feel his stare, his green-burning: a ring of fire cradled within a determined gaze as he traps me inside this smothering cloud of hostile silence, punishing me for so much more than just today.

His temper is thick, crowding airways and irritating pupils, his breathing barely in control, this situation scarcely in his grasp; one wrong word and everything stops, implodes: a warning, a bomb, a consumption.

"What the fuck did he do?" he demands, his voice deceivingly low, worse than roaring sounds, a detonation of syllables that travel over skin and get caught in the crossfire of shivers.

His anger is an illumination of flames: bright and intense and alarmingly beautiful as heat licks its way from the invisible shackles at my wrists to the fluttering pulse at my neck, branding skin and tempting ire.

He glows in this harsh light—in this severe love—and I want to taste and touch, but instead I try to tame, lashes fanning fires as I blink up at him slowly, acrimony in the air with a whisper of, "Nothing, Edward. He did nothing. We were just talking."

I'm met with a refusal, a sardonic smile—he carries this mutual pain with heedless palms, uncaring of ticking sounds and explosive hearts. "Bullshit," he snaps, spitting embers with hopeless abandon, a flurry of sparks that set fire to this dimming world. "You're upset."

And I don't know why I say it, instant conviction and defences raised, arrow poised with a gleaming silver tip. "You've caused worse," I breathe, pink dynamite and blazing lips.

There is a swift silence; a blanket of tension as regret coats my tongue and lingers within the echoey grave of first love.

Roots entwine, his expression holding, nothing changing until something does: a furrow of brows, a map studied, a destination left wanting.

"Right," he says, accepting without feeling, refusing to lay bare the colours that streak his horizon.

Fatigue mists the air, overshadowing fight; hovering below eye level, but above hearts, and choking everything with its pewter-grey enervation.

Another moment slips away as Edward's tongue touches his bottom lip, his assessment still in progress, and I don't want to look, but it's impossible to retreat, permanence taken for granted as I will this veneer to crack.

"He doesn't have the power to hurt me, Edward," I whisper, holding back tears as his mouth tightens at the corners, jaw muscles flexing in time with the clenching of his teeth. "If I'm upset, it's not because of him."

My heart is racing, his resulting silence tainting breaths and shaking bone, splitting at the seams with the stroke of his fingers through my hair, moving from beside to _touch_, weaving into hold as he forces me to _see _and not just_ feel_.

His eyes darken, a change of seasons and stifled desperation; an eclipse of simmering resentment and nighttime determination. "I told him to stay away from you," he says, staring down, down, down, exhaling truths that pinch and crumble masks.

I shake my head, wanting to laugh and scream and cry, my whole body aching from this form of loneliness that lingers like the cloying scent of smoke. "I already have enough people staying away from me," I whisper, sharing breaths as his mouth rests above mine, refusing to touch but willing to take as a point is made quietly.

There is a stillness, there is a shake—there is a brush of lashes that feather cheeks and entice pink as his head tilts and words follow. "You tell me that I'm the reason for your tears," he starts, the soft before the kill, his voice hoarse, scratching more than his throat, "and you accuse and accuse, leaving me torn, so what do I do?" he questions, skin tempting skin with the sweep and sway of lips.

His fingers press and my eyes sting, one not in conjunction with the other. "Would it make you love me more if I stayed away?" he asks, tugging at the intricate web of ties that path our future. "Would it make you happy?"

I turn my face into his, nose trailing cheek: a pressure, a longing burden, searching for more than the warmth of his skin. "No," I rasp quietly, muted sounds that breathe and bubble under water. "It would kill me. It's already killing me."

He makes a sound that I recognise; that I feel vibrate and grow with my own song. "Then tell me what to do, Bella, because I can't carry this anymore. I can't..." He trails off, voice a broken plea, desperation shattering strength and showing me what lies beneath.

I lift a palm to his chest, fingertips sliding to belt loops as I curl and hold, slowing down exits and prolonging the inevitable. "You be with me," I say simply, his breath filling my ear, shading fear with the bright hue of someone who wants to feel more than air; who wants to fly. "And you love me," I add, closing my eyes, basking in this returned emotion. "You make me feel important and don't let me go."

A hand finds mine, fingers barely brushing, testing recognised desire that neither sinks nor swims. "What if loving you is the problem?" he murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.

Stitches unravel, a retreat of thread while he watches and waits, but I don't have an answer, volume dulled, his words cementing fear and uprooting foundations.

"But that doesn't mean I don't," he states, folding silence into pockets; oceans swum and lines drawn. "Or that I can stop, even if I sometimes think I want to."

Truths are always hard to hear, and this one is no exception, even if _he_ is the exception to _everything_. I forgive, but don't always forget, the mirrored walls of my heart reflecting too many scars, too many sutures, too many open graves. But still I choose; still I bleed and spin and prick patterned skin on glittering needle points.

I run my fingers over his knuckles, holding his palm close to an unsteady beat, this pain not symmetrical as I trace infused pink and running blue with a gentle touch down the back of his right hand.

He flinches, but doesn't stop me, allowing me this quiet moment of reflection, a magnitude of dizzying ideals and future consequences.

There is a softness, there is a sense of relief; there is an influx of wavering energy, those wrong words finally making their appearance. "You shouldn't have hit him," I murmur, focusing on rainbow knuckles instead of the colour of new life.

He tenses immediately, fingers curling inwards towards his palm, the lack of warmth against my cheek alerting me to the hold of his breath.

I try to draw him closer and melt this frozen form, but he's unmoving and unwilling, statue-still as this stony façade is no longer such a front. "You're_ joking_?" he laughs, the sound humourless, the sight painful, eyes raised and_ freeze_.

I can do nothing but stare, locked inside this arctic vault, the chill of misguided lips and numbing words solidifying painfully tender moments to black ice.

He grips my chin with his thumb and forefinger, too many emotions hidden inside that unyielding gaze, his tone laced with bitterness and finished with sarcasm. "I'm sorry for hurting your boyfriend's face. It won't happen again."

Lips press shut and colours blur, angry shades of incensed brown and defiant green, the earth quaking as I push and push, aiming to sever roots and detach. "I didn't mean it like that, and you know it," I say, saturated in this blind sadness that longs for new eyes.

He takes a step back, hard and_ hard... _with his expression, with his shoulders. "It was only last night you were kissing him," he reminds me, his voice carrying that anger, that coiled sickness. "I'm not sure if I should know anything."

I groan and stare to new heights, sensing the lie in more than his eyes, his pride wounded, his stubborn heart falling to familiar lows. "You _do_," I counter, louder this time, tears of frustration filling borders below lids. "You're just using that as an excuse so you don't have to deal with this... because you're a coward... because you can't give me a simple answer."

Our gazes match, water lined and brimming at the edges. "What are we doing?" I cry, swiping angrily at my cheeks as salt paths the way to lonely hearts. "Do you even want to be with me?"

He's mute, he's stone, I'm colourless. His breathing is harsh and it feels like mine has stopped altogether. I taste grey and solitary nights, longing for malachite and open arms, crying out for that boy I know is still in there somewhere.

_Where are you, Edward?_

Eyes are unmet, souvenirs uncollected, but as I watch, his lips do move. His words, however, are not the ones I need to hear. "You don't know me anymore. I'm not even sure you know yourself."

He's deflecting, running scared while completely motionless, dominated by the reckless voices inside his head I wish I could flick off with a switch.

"I know what I want," I say quickly, whisper strangled, throat constricted. "I want you. I've only ever wanted you. But not like this." I shake my head. "I don't want to carry on being buried under a future that isn't going to happen."

It's hard to watch something decay, hard to live it, my eyes pleading with him to speak, chest rising and rising, tears an agonised burn, like the steam of the sun. But he simply watches, keeping me suspended, merciless and cruel in the face of someone he claims to care for.

"You don't love me," I whisper, wiping cheeks dry, time dripping from fingertips in translucent bubbles as those words cause him to pause, his shoulders tensing, his inhale audibly slow, look suspended beneath a bent head and lashes that cast mocking shadows.

"Stop. Talking." His tone is clipped, a voice like gravel, his demand falling on deaf ears.

"If this is your version of love," I start, the lie braced on the tip of my tongue, refusing to lie down and drown in the waters of this suffering, "then I don't want it." I take a deep breath and will my voice to hold. "Give it to someone else."

He's stunned, incensed, or maybe relieved, this retaliation his for the taking: a world emptied of me. Because this isn't living, it's surviving: basic instincts. It's forcing a hand and waiting for the outcome, swapping one purgatory for another.

"Sometimes I think telling you I loved you was the most careless thing I've ever done," I croak, rusty hinges and the taste of blood. "But this is me being brave now. I'm not waiting to be saved anymore... because you're not coming, are you?"

Realisation dawns, sinking below the clouds, cradled inside this moment, its wings delicate, its heart beating too fast. Edward may be present, but he's not really here, and until he is, the sky will never know the sun, dusk no longer enough or quite so pretty.

I push myself from the wall, commanding my feet to move, whimpers caught and held with the brush of his fingers as I pass, the back of my hand tingling from his feeble touch. I pause and wonder, but that's all I'm awarded, his attempt hurtling towards ground; and so I force myself to ignore, suppressing the wave of devastation that climbs bone-white bars in this jungle of feeling until I can be completely alone. Only then will I give in to this roaring current, letting it pull me under and block out everything but the rushing sound of an elevated pulse, the one that tries to rebuild something that has been sanded down too many times.

Our hearts are ruthless, and sometimes fickle, dictating a situation only to change its mind once the dust has settled, consequences cushioned with fleece, this garden fully in bloom with its thorny reminders.

I wonder if that's how my heart will feel when the realisation I am no longer enough finally sinks in.

There is nothing but carpet and creaking doors, stairs that seem to never end, my hands shaky as they unlock and close and support a downturned face that is streaked with tears.

I am alone; shadow lost and ticking loud. My chest feels like it's caving in, those sobs unleashed, tightening and pushing and pulling as they give life to a pain that cripples, too quick to hold, like a burning star falling from the sky.

This room was booked for two, but under unthinkable circumstances, now only holds one, my suitcase alone by the door, bed sheets smooth and towels unused; shoes discarded and heart broken.

I think of younger days and how we let it get so wrong, the ring on my finger mocking with its significance; with its shattered promise as I lower myself onto the bed, lips sore, eyes unseeing, breaths faltering.

I want to tear this feeling from my chest, fingers curling into cotton sheets as haunting sounds vibrate inside this keeper of broken dreams and quivering beats. There is a hole that can't be filled; that can only be healed by the one who put it there, ignorant of inner pleading as it refuses to stop hurting.

He looked away... he let me leave... this driving force nothing but despair:_ black, black, black_. It takes over like midnight, cloying to instrumental necessities that enable this pain to subsist, rippling cruelly until the only existence is this unbearable feeling that does not show any signs of stopping.

But then sounds are set apart, the noises not made by my hands, mouth, heart sifting through the crystallised veneer of thoughts that bear running cracks as a door is opened and a form appears, this design of nightmare carrying a dark fringed sun.

Edward lingers outside the doorway, hands braced either side of the frame, still refusing to look, but here he is, the slow burn of anger that escapes through the fractures of sadness suddenly beginning to blind, propelling me from white sheets to face and exile spring back into winter.

"Get out!" I cry, exhaustion muting preservation as my voice breaks, words tearing at an already sore throat.

Desperation begins to mount, and it's not fair, these games he plays, string dangled teasingly above my emotions; back and forth and circles run, misguided fun losing its never-quite-there smiles.

His gaze lifts, hostage seized, steps taken and door closed, exit blocked; a standoff in motion. "Did you not hear me?" I shout, anger rising like the type of balloon that breathes fire. "I said _get out_."

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, insistence ignored as my focus drifts to gliding pink, blood heating two ways with his determination. "No," he says easily, stance relaxed but features strained.

My fists clench, _this _kind of pain recognised with the flick of his gaze from legs to arms to chest to face. "Stop looking at me like that," I choke out, his advancement the noose around my neck, the weakness inside my soul as he starts to close this haphazardly crafted distance that is suddenly nowhere near wide enough. "You don't get to do this to me again," I add, countering his step forward with a backwards shuffle of feet.

"I'm sorry," he says tightly, the expression on his face threatening to crumble my resolve; walls stripped down and a heart laid bare.

His eyes are granite, a dark hunger that results in goose bumps and a racing pulse; the pursuit of a beat and show of want. "It's too late," I whisper hoarsely, swallowing against the ache that rises inside my chest like the swell of a wave. "_You're _too late."

I can hear his breaths now, sense his warmth, skin flushed and heart crazy as he leans closer. "No," I refuse, shrugging away from his outstretched hand. "Don't touch me."

Tears trail my cheeks, advantage gained for mere moments before he reminds me that I'm hurting him, too. "You make me feel insane," he murmurs, holding me captive with his dark burden. "Here... now... every time I see you... it's like looking through a window at all the things I want, but can't get to, because I'm three floors up and there is all this glass in the way, stopping me. And I'm so fucking tired of fighting it, so let me _touch you_."

I laugh bitterly, the sound morphing to something else, rope bindings and metal pincers; ribs caving in and a strength so weak.

He reaches for me again, and this time my voice is a scream, a shock to the heart and crash of cymbals, echoing and vibrating against walls that exist both outside and in. "Don't fucking touch me!"

But he doesn't listen. His palm finds my jaw, his thumb my cheek as he tilts my face to his, keeping me trapped; keeping me _his _under this tormented expression that tugs and tugs and tugs, tightening around bone and tethering me to a pain that is too much to hold on to.

His lips part, lids heavy, my own half-closed. His attention in this moment splinters courage, cowardly lions with the feel of his skin on mine, its appearance distressingly perfect. It's yearning in the simplest form, a brush of fingertips collecting tears, a sandpaper form of comfort with a soft but calloused palm.

I'm tired and dreamless, and wanting to return the favour, I destroy souls and_ inflict_, gifting my pain with a roll of bright yellow ribbon so I can breathe. "I don't want you anymore," I lie, cheeks damp as he lowers his forehead to mine, pressing his eyes shut with force, rejecting and digesting.

Guilt begins to furl like smoke, squeezing lungs with its weightless fist as cages form and doors lock, faces so close our lashes brush and tangle.

I raise my hands and push at his chest, wanting this feeling gone, but it's futile, my strength no match for his, hopeless aspirations coursing easily through a maze of red as he presses us forward, my back to the wall, his words another dictation. "Stop it," he snaps, eyes hard, my own sore and weeping-hurt.

Our noses touch and I want to shake him off and keep him exactly where he is; I want to crush this sob inside my chest and bury its ashes beneath soil in its very own forgotten garden.

"Stop hurting me then," I say, closing my eyes, safety net momentarily back in place with the cover of darkness. "I can't do this anymore. It hurts too much."

I can feel his breath on my lips, trying to tempt and distract, but my words, they don't stop. "Every time you walk away, or act like this is over, you take a piece of me with you," I tell him, hands inflicting once more as I strike out as his chest. "You've taken it all... left me empty." He touches my other cheek, and I blink lazily, lashes heavy with the weight of tears. "Does that make you happy?" I ask quietly.

His teeth grind, his swallow deep, deceit coating my tongue with the taste of his shuddering exhale. "Yes, that makes me happy," he says roughly, his thumb and forefinger resting either side of my mouth. "Just like you kissing Jasper made me happy," he chokes out, brushing his lips against mine, more breath than touch; charred secrets and a bitter kind of pain. "Just like this fucking _hole _through my chest makes me happy."

I don't get time to react, mouth busy as he leans closer, more pressure behind his lips this time as he kisses me properly, his palm sliding to the side of my neck, holding me still while groans are exchanged and touches turn soft.

"There," he murmurs, stopping briefly to take a breath, a cruel bitterness present in his tone as he releases his next words. "Does that make it all better?" he questions lowly.

There is sadness swirled within green, but still I push at his face, keeping my fingers pressed against his cheeks as my face crumples and my words punish. "I hate you."

His control continues to slip, his anguish a glinting star, my lie a burning planet, our pain linked in darkness. "Well," he voices raggedly, washing away one of my tears with the pad of his thumb. _"I _don't hate _you_."

He blazes, but not in anger, the sensation of this coveted union as it trickles away too much for either of us to handle. I'm breaking down and try to step around him, but his arms are an instant cage, stopping me, barring my escape.

He holds me close and ignores my struggles, his fingers tangling through my hair as I press my face into his neck. "Let me go," I say weakly, plea muffled against skin, conviction eroded within the cave of his arms; overturned castles made of sand and still water blue.

"I can't," he responds lowly, his breath an instant dismissal as it washes up and over strands of driftwood.

Tears spill from the corners of my eyes, the arm around my waist pressing me closer, keeping me afloat. "Loving you is too hard," I say with a whisper, struggling for air with the pinch those words bring.

His kiss starts at my temple and trails to my cheek, his hands gentle but insistent as he tilts my face higher, bringing my mouth under his. "Am I not worth it anymore?" he wonders, searching like lights out at sea.

I shake my head, but not because he isn't. I would take his hurt over and over, breaking point reached time and again, sick and caught up in this net of f_ucked up _that labels me his alone. Because love isn't always happy. It's the tears collected at midnight and the grey clouds that promise rain; the claws inside my chest and the screaming words released when my heart is breaking.

It is Edward. It is me. It is this feeling right now and the look in his eyes.

He's showing me what he has left to give, insides like mine; matching seashells that echo the voices of distant cries, coloured enamel bearing the scuff marks of my name.

His love is found in my sticky cheeks and his pained expression; our mingled breaths and racing beats; the rings on our fingers and the dark places we don't talk about.

He drags his palms from my neck to my shoulders, and it's carried there, too... from my arms to my back... to the buttons of my dress and the skin between each opened one.

"Don't tell me to leave," he says lowly, lips a feather light distraction as they barely touch my own; as my lids fall shut, unable to withstand the look on his face. "Don't tell me I'm not worth it."

Even with eyes closed, his expression lingers, his words twisting breaths to something faster—loud and hot—spurring desire as I taste his pleas: his hopeless despair and quiet desperation.

His fingers curl under the straps of my dress, and I don't stop him, shivers trailing spine as gentle hands brush sensitive skin, bare breasts exposed to cool air and the slow descent of familiar palms.

His touches are light, a breeze of dandelion cotton and the first hint of summer, a warmth that spreads while time progresses, nipples teased with the languid trace of thumbs.

This night is streaked with regret, anguish clinging to the beat of my heart, but his hands are here to heal, to chase shadows, skin and bone worshipped and beautiful.

"Don't hide from me," he implores, enticing the flutter of opened lashes as eyes meet, dilated pupils to dilated pupils, drowning in crazy tides with the pull of a trigger. "I love you," he presses, the back of his knuckles following the line of my collarbone, his gaze never leaving, his intensity never wavering. "And I'm not going anywhere. My forever still stands if yours does."

I soar, diamond shapes made for the sky, for wedding bands and wanting fingers as his touch heightens, travelling the distance of pale skin, up and under until his thumb finds my bottom lip, pressure earned, tip touching tongue touching heart touching _low, low, low_. "I'm so completely yours," he breathes, kindling fires: ember red and sunset orange.

Broken sobs shade the walls as silent tears track my cheeks, relief spiralling, need dizzying, this ride carrying so much love that fear uselessly prompts my heart to jump, instinct ignored and strings still clutched inside the safety of palms.

Words are strangers and my tongue stays wary, unprepared for his honesty and untamed truths, breathless and dreamless and stuck in the clouds.

It feels like I'm falling apart and breathing life all at the same time; wrong and right and I don't want it to end, I don't want it to stop.

His hands shift, fingers caressing soft curves and sweeping nipples, my pulse racing and shudders gaining as he talks and talks, sharing secrets and gifting memories. "The very first time I saw you... I knew I was ruined for anyone else; with your ready smile and brown eyes and blushing cheeks. You had me so fucked," he says, gaze dipping as his thumb flicks, whimpers drifting with its return. "You still do."

I fade and falter and clutch at his shirt, twisting cotton as breaths accelerate and lips tremble. "Edward, I..." He shakes his head and I trail off, path forgotten as I stay right where I am, allowing him this moment, accepting this gift.

"There is nothing in this world that is more important to me than you are," he says hoarsely, swallowing thickly as he continues to look back at me with so much intensity I think I'll stop breathing, his words a whisper, their sound a burning tear. "I'm sorry for every single day I've ever made you doubt that."

He cups my cheeks and wipes away my hurt as it falls and falls and falls, a downpour of too much feeling and soundless regret. "I'll be whatever you need me to be," he presses, driving his point home with unquestionable sincerity. "You've given up so much for me. You deserve your fairy tale, and I want to be in it, so wherever you're going... take me with you."

He kisses my forehead and I can't remember what it feels like to wake up and not love this mouth, this face, the mornings his distance left a heart in ruins still not enough to eclipse this feeling that is as familiar to me as my shadow.

I raise my palms and trace his brows, his lids threatening to close as I touch and soothe and find my voice. "Fairy tales aren't real, Edward," I murmur against his lips, sliding buttons through holes and pressing skin to skin with breathless relief.

"Then we let everything else go," he returns, whispering into my mouth as his palms curl around my hips. "I don't care about obligations or work or what anyone else thinks. I don't want to lose you."

He pushes my dress down, down, down, fabric rustling in its descent as it falls to the ground, his shirt following quickly while mouths become desperate, teeth and tongue and take, take, take, time no longer sympathetic as hunger claims its victims.

His arm slips around my back, his other rising, hair grasped and moans swallowed as I push and arch and pull at his belt, buckle loose and pant-zip lowered, these months and months of heart-fueled wanting suddenly more than a possibility.

Strong hands trail over lace, down and down to the backs of my knees, my fingers tangling through favoured hair as he lifts me off my feet, thighs cradling hips: warmth to warmth, hard to soft.

"Tell me you love me," he pants, shifting and pressing, groans and loud wanting, this dark purple thread of patience getting thinner and thinner.

I push his hair from his forehead, gaze lingering on damp lashes, holding focus before his eyes dip to my mouth. "I love you," I tell him, and not just because he asked, but because I_ feel_.

He kicks away barriers, moving from wall to bed, my head supported as he lowers me to the mattress, knee between thighs, tongue between lips, my palms greedy as they slide over back muscles and squeeze shoulders in an attempt to bring him closer.

Touches kiss hearts, his mouth warm and wet and mine, lips red and poised above, purposefully out of reach while eyes capture; key inserted and door locked.

His look is long, and hard, our breaths loud in this room filled with humming ticks as his palms rest either side of tangled curls; as he flexes and pushes hips, knees spreading, movement slow and so, so good.

Lashes flutter and chests heave: more air, more touch, more _everything_.

He presses his chest closer, warm skin to warm skin. "Your heart is beating so fast," he murmurs, staring down at me.

I bring my fingers to his lips, touching what I can't taste, outlining their softness and feeling his kiss. "That's because it knows you," I say quietly, volume diminished under the intensity of his gaze.

He shivers, cold winter mornings and snowy desperation, his hands grasping hair as he tilts back my head, his lips at my throat, fiery brushstrokes that paint me his.

"Does it beat like this for anyone else?" he wonders, knowing but still asking, teeth nipping at skin, my body trembling.

I run my fingers over muscles to his face, forcing him to look, his eyes hinting to things I want to erase with words and lips and adoration. "No, Edward. Only you," I promise while stroking the line of his jaw.

He swallows thickly and lowers his mouth back to mine, kissing me slowly before dragging his lips down my chest, open mouth pausing over my heart. "I want to live right here," he breathes shakily.

I taste the tears at the back of my throat when I assure him, "You already do."

I feel his exhale and the press of teeth, need bleeding into skin, love sketched and sealed with a trace of pink.

He studies soft curves with his eyes, with his tongue, undersides and peaks, pale skin and a purse of lips. I grip sheets and urge for speed as his fingers curl into lace and slide slowly, impatience potent—drinks that are clear, but not like water—wanting to match his level of undress.

Thoughts cloud, his purpose evident, time taken and hand between us, between _me_, teasing and giving as my hips lift and push for more. But it's not enough. "Edward," I whimper, shifting and pulling at shoulders, bringing him back, tugging him closer.

He casts shadows, his gaze drifting low, low, low, this anticipation almost unbearable as his hard slides against my soft; as his mouth parts and head drops, moans tinting the air.

And then he's there, and he stills, looking up beneath lashes and wayward hair as I pant and lick drying lips, his gaze drifting from heaving breasts to lock and hold and tell me words all without speaking as he finally starts to push himself inside.

His jaw clenches and my breath leaves, the expression on his face torn between pleasure and pain, giving me time to adjust before moving forward, and back; and again, and again.

I make a noise and he stops, but I shake my head, and tell him, "No, no, keep going," in a voice that doesn't sound like mine because it all feels so good, and my skin is hot and my heart is racing, and his cheeks are flushed and I can't stop staring at his face.

I trace his brows, his lids hooded and gaze dark as he takes that final thrust forward, so deep, my lips parting and back arching, eyes still locked on his, drowning inside this ardent and reflected need.

Nothing else compares to this feeling, to the weight of his body as he groans and presses himself closer, arms lowering either side of my head, suffocating me in nothing but him.

"I love you like this," he pants, focus shifting across my face as he pulls his hips back just to push forward again, "flushed and breathless beneath me." He accentuates his words with a soft grunt, his breath hot on my cheek. "You feel so good," he tells me quietly.

My lashes flutter, but I don't close my eyes. I don't want to miss the way his brows furrow and straighten; the way his lids fall and open; the way his mouth parts and noises sound.

He whispers that he never wants to stop, and I whimper, my love a nonsensical plea that gets trapped in the space between us.

Lips find lips, breaths lost and shared, reaction gained as I wrap my legs around him, forcing him deeper, urge met and skin grasped.

He keeps his eyes on my mouth, his exhale quick as he moves above me, grinding and pushing and teasing and O_h, God_.

"Fuck," he breathes, his nose brushing mine as he traces my bottom lip with his tongue, sigh tasted and pillow grasped as he raises himself up on his palms and thrusts forward—once, _hard_, twice,_ again_—breath stolen before he slows and taunts and presses his open mouth to mine.

I shiver, but not from the cold. He kisses me so softly, eyes opening to meet as he takes my top lip between his, mouth lingering as he gazes down at me. His eyes are so green, and his cheeks are flushed and his kiss is so good.

I try to remember a time without him, a life without this feeling inside my chest.

It's a roaring blaze and a tumbling world; blue flamed desire and smoke signals in the sky.

He's the connecting dot in all my memories, my inner compass covered in skin: north and south and east and west.

My nails dig into his sides, his kisses raining from chin to temple and back, head cradled as they trail down my throat, my eyes drifting closed, skin worshipped with sure palms and an eager touch.

He's a moment, a kiss, a smile; the laugh that follows and cheeks that ache: my airless wonder, my dreamlike state.

His lips find my forehead, my hands spreading over his back, his breath hot as I shift up to meet him, groans chasing whimpers chasing air.

I smother in his flames and accept his warmth, fire shared and sparks caught. He circles his hips and my body reacts; a heart made of cinders, my bones formed of ash.

"Bella," he says lowly, reaching for my left hand, palm against palm for moments that don't last as fingers trace creases before tracking vows, wedding band followed with a gentle touch.

Tears prick my eyes, my voice weak, my throat tight. "Don't stop," I whisper, my lips against his ear.

He buries his face between my neck and shoulder before sliding his palms down my legs, hands curling around thighs; movements faster, stronger, breaths shallow, this need travelling deeper.

Murmurs stick to sweaty skin, his whispers too low for me to hear; my sweetheart and soul spinner, my white gold and promise lips.

I close my eyes and he spreads my legs wider, touch inside of thighs as he rocks and rocks, passion, desperation: fear and spite and silence. A good kind of ending chased.

Edward is my good, my bad, my always: first light blessings and the pull on eyelids when darkness conquers blue sky. He carries my heart from sun to moon, from cloud to star, and I follow.

My hands smooth down his neck, attempting to erase the jagged edges that line his thoughts and cut his gums; that poison tongues and dig graves.

He lifts and looks, exhale _slow, quick, slow _as he moves above me, his breath stuttering when I push up to meet him.

And it's too much, for us both maybe, his heavy gaze and warring emotions, these cursed missed opportunities trapping without chains.

He keeps his eyes on my lips, but my hands coax, tugging at bronze, face lowered, cheek against cheek while we push and pull, rhythm gained and lost.

Tears form at the corner of my eyes, and I moan softly, imagining a different outcome, my days without him, an empty shell filled with rapidly fading photographs and a frozen beat.

I think about him loving someone else, his affections gifted to another, his lips and tongue and hands ghostly feelings my skin can't remember.

Sounds choke, his forehead pressing to mine, his back muscles straining. "Are you okay?" he whispers, breathing heavily.

My hands slide up his sides, violin strings that tremble, his hips slowing as he runs his thumbs across my cheeks.

His touch makes the tears fall faster, a whimper present while my lips part, throat sore and love an airtight desperation.

"Shh," he murmurs, resting his open mouth over mine, boat rocked and wave rising. "I know. I know."

He kisses my saltwater pathways and tastes my tears, my sadness held on his tongue as he strokes my hair and assures me with light brushes and gentle sways.

I guide my palm to his heart, nails digging into skin, my chest an echo of quivering breaths and twisted knots. "Let this always be mine," I plead, his eyelids lazy, my words low. "Please."

He takes my bottom lip between his teeth before pushing his tongue fully into my mouth, a low whine trapped inside my throat, breast squeezed and promise given, tips to skin and not letting go.

This answer is better, and worse, and his hands, they press and take and remind me I'm his, with his gaze, with his control as he pulls back, searching and trapping, lips reaching lips: to rest, to feel. "It's always been yours, Bella," he murmurs against a cushion of pink. "That's never going to change."

Souls aren't so lonely, smooth and rough, patterns formed with a crease of skin, the draw of a tongue, lines drafted and hearts connected.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pressure growing and moans swallowed, bodies slick and position shifting, his hands curling beneath my shoulders, a hook of palms and push of hips.

Fear fades with every form of embrace, small and still and _breathe_, lashes catching nightmares as he keeps his face close, watching intently, pant and pant, my open mouth, his, desperation blanketing his tongue tonight. "Don't ever leave me again," he says breathlessly, staring and holding. "I couldn't..."

His eyes squeeze shut and my fingers trail from thick brows to smooth cheeks to strong lines. "I'm never truly gone, Edward," I say, sliding my touch to his neck, hair stroked at the nape, his exhale shaky, this comfort more than coveted. "I don't think I know how to _not _be yours."

He gives and I take; my lips part and roles reverse, words bestowed with a beating heart. "You're my whole world," I say, truths that tear and light up the sky, his thrusts getting harder, our breaths loud between and against. "And I'll never not want you. But sometimes I'm scared this isn't normal... this feeling... us hurting each other."

"I don't care about normal," he groans, kissing down my neck, his teeth scraping flesh. "I just want to be yours."

His attention lifts and I can't look away, his gaze my connecting ache and adhesive need, silence unsealed for short moments as a different kind of urge takes precedence. It builds and builds, his hand sliding down my stomach, high between my thighs while my back arches and hips circle, pressing into his touch, head thrown back and chest heaving.

He grinds, pace increasing, whispering words that make me moan, and I'm cotton, frayed and unfolded, unravelling beneath his touch as seams give way and passion threads, nothing ever feeling this good.

And then my attention is all on him, his head bent, watching and cursing before I capture his eyes and witness his fall, hands reaching while he shudders and groans, his face pressed tightly into my shoulder, my arms tied loosely around his neck, resting skin to sticky skin.

Darkness blankets windowpanes as we lie and hold and catch our breaths, his weight comfort and heat, tethers present in more ways than one, our bodies bathed in lamplight gold. I run my fingers through the sweat dampened hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the beat of his heart gradually begin to slow, this breakdown finding momentary peace.

Puzzle pieces fall into place, and my eyes burn, tears gathering as I sift through memories like photographs, knowing this particular moment will become smudged over time with the eager print of my thoughts.

I feel the brush of his lashes and the press of his lips, _this _kiss not feeling like goodbye despite the fact he begins to pull away.

He doesn't go very far, his body shadowing mine as he holds himself above and really_ sees_, assessing the damage, ready to collect the pieces worth saving.

The way he watches, scrutinizing every blink, every tear that rolls, it makes my heart ache, like kiss-sore lips, the kind of pain that is so, so good I can't turn away. Because there is no bitterness here: his expression is soft and intense and full of something I remember.

It is a midday proposal and a smile against skin; a _good morning_, a _wake up_, a _yes_.

It is a younger face shielded in raindrops, a whisper of _I think we're safe_, a low promise of _always_.

His thumb sweeps my cheek, his tone belying his expression, but not in a bad way. It just shows he's carrying his own memories, too. "I hate these," he says, speaking of the reason for my damp lashes as he lowers himself to my side, coaxing me to face him with his palm still cradling my cheek. "All those nights I'd lie awake and listen to you cry, knowing your tears were for me... because of me... the guilt... I couldn't handle it." His breath comes out in a rush. "But then some small part of me also liked it... because it meant that you were hurting as much as I was."

I make a strangled noise and turn my face away, bloodlines carrying shards of glass that twist and remind.

"Don't do that," he chokes out, wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. "Don't you know how much I love you?" he questions, pausing with his lips at the edge of my mouth.

I nod and tear and turn on my side to face him, meeting his eyes, his pained expression. "It still hurts to hear, though," I say quietly, running my fingers over his chest.

"I'm not doing it to hurt you," he sighs, proving with his words, his gentle touch. "I want to be honest... I want you to still love me knowing the truth."

Defenses shatter and walls fall down, this need to talk spurring open desire and promoting regret. "I'll always love you... but sometimes it's almost like I can't bear to know those things," I say shakily, my smile small and watery, trying to soothe.

He brings his lips to my forehead, slow and hard and soft, his mouth lingering as he speaks. "I'm going to be better for you. I promise."

Staccato beats echo and vibrate, bones wrapped around bones, adrenaline skipping stones and sinking ships.

I ghost a kiss over his neck, living in his pulse, drowning in his scent. "You've always been the best for me," I assure him, every blink shifting grey and tempting yellow. "I just want you home... You stopped coming home."

Bodies shift and faces level, his breath my breath, fingers laced and knuckles swept, honesty surfaced and focused. "Sometimes I had to stay away," he says, his brows furrowing under a moment relived. "Every time I saw you, my heart would fall a little more than the day before, your pain so visible, even when you were attempting to hide it." He draws air, slow and deep. "It was like being trapped under stone. And sometimes, this," he says, resting our joined hands over his heart, "it got so far down while trying to protect itself, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find it. But then you'd walk into a room, or do something as simple as give me a look or say my name, and there it was again, hurting and aching, for you."

"You could have told me," I whisper, throat thick and ribs bound with red cotton.

"I'm not sure I could. I don't think either of us were ready to listen. So, even though I wanted to be with you... sometimes it got too much. Because while I hated feeling like that... it was your pain I couldn't handle."

My face crumples, his truths coated in thorns. "So you knew and let me carry on thinking you didn't want me?" I say, struggling fruitlessly in his arms, his hold tightening, refusing to let go.

"Stop," he breathes, parting his lips over mine, trying to calm this possible storm. "I know it was wrong, but I told myself if I was able to hurt you, it meant you were still mine. Because I wasn't the only one who stopped communicating, Bella. You did, too."

His lashes glisten, diamonds inside this pain, his gaze cutting through my own sadness to bear witness to _his _as thunder-beats drum inside my chest, this battle a dying breed, white flags waved and held high.

Our life is not packaged. We make mistakes, boxes cluttering hallways, keepsakes left in vulnerable positions, teetering on ledges and crashing from great heights. I was careless. I pushed. Fault lies within me, too.

A fall day changed everything. We exchanged keys and opened locks, permission granted in dark rooms as we cried, and shivered, bloodlines plucked like strings, an atlas studied, a face remembered, anguish orbiting like the earth in which we live.

"I wasn't naive," I start, pushing a piece of matted hair from his forehead. "I didn't think we could outrun sadness. Or maybe I did. Maybe that's why it was so hard to accept, because never once did I think we would get to a place where we didn't talk or listen." He looks and looks, my fingers telling him I'm right here. "I'm so in love with you," I whisper, "and I'd question myself constantly. Like, how does that work? How can this happen, if I feel this strongly? I hated it and just wanted it to stop. So I guess I did, too."

He swallows thickly, eyes tightening at the corners, his breath deep. "Loving me?" he wonders.

I shake my head. "No," I say lowly. "The part where I was making you so unhappy."

His lips part and I wipe away his tears, comforting him this time with soft whispers to cheeks and lashes and a wanting mouth. His kiss turns angry, desperate, hands grasping skin, punishing and pressing, darkness chased, his exile within. Because this battle is not mine. He's searching himself, between shadow and smoke, and so I simply give him what he needs without fight, kissing and tugging and pulling him closer.

Night continues to hurry by with moments like these, fingers talking when tongues can't, the blizzard of stars beyond glass washed away with sunrise, chalky orange smudging the sky.

Another page in our book turns, hours passing with a scratch of lead, blank pages filled with quiet murmurings that scream so loud from whispering tips, this form of grey welcomed.

Edward's eyes are bright with the appearance of morning's first light, his tongue dampening his bottom lip as he traces the undersides of my breasts.

"Will you go with me somewhere?" he asks, flicking his gaze to mine, his form highlighted in weak citrine as he hovers above, skin bright while shielding the sun.

I blink slowly, this sight blinding. "It's early," I murmur, taking him in. "Nowhere will be open."

His smile is soft, and slightly higher at one side of his mouth, my heart stumbling, unsure if it's big enough to hold this sudden wave of feeling that rises within its scarlet walls. "I know," he answers, lowering his face to mine, nose nudging nose touching heart.

I stroke his jaw and shiver, outlining the curve of his smile as my fingers move to rest at his mouth. "Then where..."

He shakes his head. "Just say yes," he implores, holding me captive with his green persuasion.

I think back to first meetings and first impressions; to a choice stolen so easily, at one with this moment, this face, this heart, his lingering stare.

"Okay," I breathe as his touch sends sparks across my skin. "Yes."

**~CitP~**

The room is quiet apart from the whispering turn of pages, a domino effect of curled shoulders and furrowed brows as textbooks are studied and essays are started.

Lead presses to paper; a break, a crumble, a pressure too great, breath held and released... slowly... silently.

My mouth feels dry and my focus drifts, the presence of the boy beside me panicking movements and carefully cutting wires, while we sit... and wait... hour mark coveted by hands that don't bear fingers.

His throat clears and my muscles tense, glance stolen in time to witness the bounce of his right knee, my left leg instinctively pulled closer before sliding back into place.

My cheeks heat and the hand on his thigh curls into a fist, action not unnoticed, this tension not unfelt.

His eyes dart to mine, a tug of green that weaves its web and claims its victim, my lips parting, his own licked, this moment waking up emotions that have yet to be assessed.

He wears that same furrow of brows as those around us, my pulse loud in my ears as I take a deep breath, aiming for calm, attempting to pull away.

My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, words kept at bay, small smile offered in place, instincts in motion with this vault of looks I don't understand; that I want to stop and start and never end.

His gaze drops lower before falling away altogether, fingers raked through wayward hair, strands grasped and pen scrolling.

Relief and dismay battle against eyelids and a too quick beat.

There is a drum inside my chest; a riot of repetitive hits and resulting vibration.

His knee bounces. My palms sweat. Pencil lead smudges. Words remain unseen.

There is shyness.

There is indifference.

There are fleeting looks that pass the time until an hour mark is grasped and a moment stolen.

**~CitP~**

I've begun to think life is a path of narrow misses and curved hearts, enabling us to learn once mistakes are made, that crimson slope ensuring our fall is not so great that we can't recover.

It's not about finding the person who won't, at times, be cruel, or, on occasion, make us cry; who won't fight and shout and shatter dreams, causing our pulse to sing off key and our soul to dismantle.

It's about finding the person who will still be there at the end of it all; who will wipe away our tears and kiss our eyelids dry with apologetic lips and rueful tips.

It's about finding the person who will continue to love us even when we're not so loveable.

Silhouettes shade golden grains, this view familiar, a canvas of ocean painted with brushstrokes of dark blue and water that holds remnants of fractured moonlight as the sun pushes its way up into the sky.

I was here yesterday. I was here years before. I'm here again today.

It's not yet summer, but heat kisses my skin in the form of a warm palm as sand shifts beneath my feet, not quick enough to claim and sink these tethered limbs.

Edward leads the way, leaving me content to follow, his untucked white shirt whipping at the hem, this breeze unapologetic so close to the water.

My dress is still peach, and our feet are bare—our minds too full to speak—our inner clocks still working, ticking away in their love and heartbreak, little and big hands continuing to spin and heal.

Our scars remain, memories that can't be erased, screams that resonate through flesh and bone with a war that has already been won. For our truths carry weight, our love unbeatable, this thread still intact around and between.

Heat pries apart my fingers, palms linked as we settle front to back on sand that has yet to warm, my hair tangling about my cheeks, my heart ensnared by the boy behind me with his green eyes and unbreakable bond.

I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, feeling his stare, his lips as they pause just below my ear. "Are you tired?" he asks, drawing his name with invisible ink on the back of my hand.

My lashes flutter open, the sky caught between, this form of blue held amongst blinks. "No," I say honestly, shifting for a clearer view of features I know as well as my own.

His fingers tease curls from wind-pink cheeks, movement slow and gentle, prickling skin and pulling strings. "I wanted to ask you something," he starts, and while I don't freeze, I can't help but feel a little wary, searching his face for clues that will help me understand.

But he hasn't yet learnt how to fully be open, his front cover still guarded, so I swallow down my fear and ask, "About what?"

He turns his face further into mine, pressure steady, query released. "I'll be staying here, in Seattle, for a few extra days." I feel my heart stop, my brows furrow, confusion settling bone deep. "Will you wait with me, instead of going back?"

Hope soars, carried within weightless cotton, but I'm not so sure I can trust it. "Why?" I question, tasting tears at the back of my throat, ones that threaten to choke and take me somewhere that may not be real.

His exhale hits my parted lips as I become caught up in expressions that fail to put out that bright flame of belief. "Because I have a job interview here in two days time," he answers carefully, his eyes searching for reactions that have no place to hide, trickling from corners and trailing clear.

"Why?" I ask again, unable to form coherent thoughts in light of his admission.

He looks and looks, my free palm clutching his shirt. "Because you love it here," he replies, his gaze unyielding. "You run, I chase, remember?"

My vision instantly blurs, a world of watercolour and change that no longer dangles just out of reach. "Your mother thinks I should let you go," I say, wanting these ghosts gone; for nothing to come back and haunt this moment.

He pauses, his inhale deep, his anger controlled, his words resolute. "My parents have never understood what's best for me."

I process and love and try not to break, no longer alone, or simply trying to survive. I ache and dream and squeeze his fingers, pulse surging and moment lived.

"Why are you crying?" he whispers, stroking my cheek with his thumb, with his lips.

"Because this feels real. I feel alive."

He presses his forehead to mine, feathered secrets that carry the warmth of the sun. "We were never dead, Bella," he murmurs, his voice getting carried away by the breeze. "We were just sleeping, that's all."

Sometimes I think to love is to walk on air. Our eyes may be open, and our arms may stretch wide, nothing beneath our feet in this thing called life.

We try not to look down, but inevitability crosses our path and obstacles hit, our balance wavering as we stumble and fall—we dust off our hearts and try again.

And maybe that makes us stupid; maybe Edward and I _are _stupid, because we keep walking and walking, directionless and utterly consumed by this miracle; by this consequence; by a love that can't be cured.

There will continue to be cracks in our pavement; we won't always be perfect, we won't always be okay, but this time, we'll know, because there is something stronger than the fractures that threaten to block our path.

It helps build bridges and conquer doubt, ensuring our feet of where to step, of where to find that solid ground.

For we are tethered: we are the sea, we are the shore.

We'll keep coming back.

* * *

**The End.**

**I want to thank each and every one of you that has read, reviewed and shared this story; their own experiences.**

** It hasn't always been the easiest to write; I've never been in their situation. But I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've loved writing it.**

**Susan and Jen deserve all the awards. They've supported me so much and reassured me more times than I can count. **

**Thank you girls. I love you.**

**Judy is the best pre-reader ever. And ****Meg leaves the best comments. **

**I love them both, too.**

**And lastly, a few people have asked if I'll be starting anything new. **

**I currently write a collab with the lovely iambeagle titled: Stubborn Love. We'd love to see you there. :)**

**Also, I am in the process of writing and planning a new story. **

**Working title: Basic Space. It will be a little angsty and a lot teen. I'll have more details nearer posting.**

**Again, thank you all so much for reading.**

**VHL xx**


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